How Lady Vengeance Takes Her Tea
by olivieblake
Summary: Despite the gallantry of its courtiers and the gleam of its enchantments, the heart of the burgeoning wizarding world isn't quite the dazzle it appears. Faced with the secrets of her new husband's curse, an unwilling queen finds herself with an impossible choice: kill him to save her life, or risk her own to save his. Dramione, fairytale AU. COMPLETE.
1. All That Glitters

**How Lady Vengeance Takes Her Tea**

_**Summary: **__Despite the gallantry of its courtiers and the gleam of its enchantments, the heart of the burgeoning wizarding world isn't quite the dazzle it appears. Faced with the secrets of her new husband's curse, an unwilling queen finds herself with an impossible choice: kill him to save her life, or risk her own to save his. Dramione, fairytale AU._

_**Disclaimer: **__I do not own these characters and claim no profit from this work. Credit where credit is due, Joanne Rowling. I have also adapted the storyline of Irina and Mirnatius from Spinning Silver by Naomi Novik, though I have made significant changes to the plot._

_**a/n:**_ _You might call this concept a number of things; fairytale, but also vaguely historical, with an element of arranged marriage plus enemies-to-lovers. It takes place in a fictionalized version of the Potterverse during the early Georgian era and I expect it will update weekly. I can't wait to start another adventure with you, and I hope you enjoy the story!_

* * *

**Chapter 1: All That Glitters**

It's been some time since you last visited your grandmother; perhaps not since you sat for your N.E.W.T.s, though you can hardly be blamed for that. You've been busy with your new job, firstly, which everyone agrees is understandable, and your father only recently secured his second term as Minister, so your grandmother hasn't necessarily been a priority for some time. Now, though, Papa insists you pay a visit, and so you join your grandmother in the usual place in the garden, sitting down with her for tea on a particularly crisp autumn afternoon.

"I suppose I ought to tell you a story," remarks your grandmother, after the usual gratuitous praise for how well you look and the perfunctory questions about your post-graduate studies. You, of course, are mindlessly smearing strawberry jam onto a scone and thinking about how you're much too old for this; but Papa insisted you pay a visit, so it's probably best you don't complain.

"Have I told you the one about Lady Vengeance?" Grandmother asks.

A snappy title, that. You say no, though presumably Grandmother will have her say regardless, and predictably, she does. "Well," says your grandmother, "Lady Vengeance was born in a very different world than the one we're all accustomed to now, petal. There was quite a different role for Minister then," she explains, glancing fondly at Papa's portrait, "and the Ministry itself was just beginning its rise to prominence. Wizarding court was a mirror of the muggle one, you know," she adds, and you nod, just to prove you're listening. "There were lords scrambling for power in both Parliament and the Ministry at the time, but both were still governed by a king."

King Lucius, you supply primly. You know this because you received an Outstanding in History of Magic, and also, it isn't as if this is Grandmother's first foray into the mythos of her glamorous youth. Still, the stories of glittering ballgowns and fashionable courtiers are her bread and butter, as far as you're concerned. They are where her countless tales come most successfully to life.

"Yes, King Lucius," your grandmother confirms, "and his was an extravagant court indeed. But beneath the illuminating charms and beauty enchantments, his courtiers mainly glittered with ambition, and thus the king was made to keep a careful watch over their schemes. Wizarding monarchy was on a decline," she laments, "and the king was constantly surrounded by backstabbing nobles and spies. Beauty, then, was made to be everywhere, if only to obscure the ugliness of court politics."

Your smear of clotted cream smooths easily over the jam as you listen.

"The king had a son, of course; famously handsome, even as a boy. Rotten through and through, too, and dreadfully spoilt, with terrible rumors following him like a shadow, making him sullen and quiet over time. His mother died very young, you know," she says, pouring a bit of milk into her tea. "An illness, or so the palace claimed, though many reported having seen the queen in perfect health the very day she died. When young Prince Draco did not spill a single tear upon hearing the news, many suspected him of having contributed in some way to her death; perhaps having cursed her in a rage, or having struck her from some kind of tantrum."

You think this is a terrible thing to accuse a child of doing, but of course you become distracted when you register the mention of Prince Draco, because that is another name you know.

"Ah yes, the prince," your grandmother remarks with a chuckle, catching the look on your face. Regrettably, she seems fully aware that you and your housemates stared overlong at the prince's portrait in your fifth year textbooks. "I told you he was handsome, didn't I?"

You think it's heartily embarrassing to be discussing handsome men with your grandmother, so you bite demurely into your scone while she laughs.

"In any case, Lady Vengeance did not think much of him either," she continues, "nor he of her, not at first. They met as children, encountering each other upon one of the prince's rare visits to Hogwarts. There was always something between them, or so legend has it, though it did not matter for much until nearly ten years later. By then, King Lucius had already been murdered, and—"

Here you look up with a start, because no such thing was taught in your textbooks. King Lucius was certainly not murdered.

"He certainly was," your grandmother scoffs.

No, impossible. You've read all the books, and never has there been any mention of King Lucius' death at all, outside of it being untimely.

"Untimely and unnatural," assures your grandmother, "as murder so often is."

Now you're intrigued, largely as a professional matter. What did Lady Vengeance have to do with it? It's certainly possible your grandmother has gone a bit dotty, seeing as she ought to know you're not some gullible child. Was Lady Vengeance the reason for everything that came next?

"Oh yes, undoubtedly," your grandmother says. "She is, after all, the reason there is no longer a curse upon the bloodlines of the Sacred Twenty-Eight."

Curse? Now you're a bit disappointed, as this is clearly just another fairy story your grandmother is spinning to try and mesmerize you, mistaking you for the same young girl you once were. You are old enough now not to hang on her every word, and certainly to understand that there are no such things as curses; not the kind your grandmother means, anyway.

"There used to be, in my day," Grandmother primly corrects you. "Prince Draco had one, and everyone knew it. Even," she adds, "those who did not."

Well, now that's just nonsense. Blood curses have been debunked several times over, for one thing. You've studied them yourself, and in no recorded instance was it ever actually a curse, but always something else. A poltergeist. A bit of bad luck here and there, or simply a highly clever witch or wizard for an adversary. But since your grandmother is unlikely to be convinced by any logic you put forth, instead you tempt her with a test.

Assuming the curse was real, how could she know for sure whether this so-called Lady Vengeance had anything to do with breaking it?

"Well, petal," your grandmother says with a smile, "I know because I saw her do it."

* * *

_**The Glorious Reign of King Lucius II, 1715  
**__Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Eleven Years Before The Fall_

Hermione Granger sat patiently on an uncomfortable chair outside the headmaster's office, swinging her legs where they floated above the castle's stone ground. Her dress was dirty and stained, and though she'd made an attempt to mend her stockings before arriving, her efforts had been largely futile. Unfortunately, her magic seemed to come only in bursts, and it didn't appear to enjoy being wasted on the inconsequence of fraying thread or soiled linens.

"I'm afraid we don't have much to offer her," the headmaster was saying quietly to Professor McGonagall. "A bed, possibly, and I suppose if she's quiet enough—"

"She is, I assure you. A remarkably clever witch, given her age," said the professor, whom Hermione had initially thought was a cat (stray and homeless, like her) until the tabby had transformed into a grey-haired woman with a no-nonsense air of warmth, beckoning her here to the castle. "If she were not so immensely gifted, Armando, I may not have found her to begin with."

The headmaster considered it a moment. "Does she have parents? Anyone who might come looking for her?"

"Dead," said Professor McGonagall. "She has no one."

"Poor thing," the headmaster sighed. "And you're certain she's a witch? Because if she is not, then no matter how much you may wish to help her—"

"I am certain."

"But… the parents are not magical?"

"It is known to happen. Uncommonly, but it does occur from time to time."

"Well, nobody will like it much." The headmaster considered it further. "She is the right age, at least," he remarked, sighing. "Though she will have to be under your charge, Minerva. We cannot have our noble families disturbed by her presence among their children. And given that we have already agreed to protect the Potter boy—"

"I will gladly have her in my charge, Armando. You know I have long requested an assistant for my work."

"Still, there is no telling who will take offense if others discover the nature of her birth. And we cannot keep her here for free, so at best she'll have a debt—"

"Hey," hissed a voice to Hermione's left, and she turned to the side with a jolt, startled as a boy with pale blond hair slid into view. "What are you doing up here?"

He was dressed far more elegantly than she was, to say the least. His waistcoat bore such a complicated pattern of silks that she accidentally permitted herself to stare for several moments too long. She had never seen anything like it on a man before, much less a child who seemed to be her age, and she had certainly never seen a boy who looked like him before. He was very handsome; almost inhumanly handsome, and coldly so, as if he were fae, or possibly enchanted from a painting come to life. His hair was slicked back, nearly white, and his eyes were a crisp, malevolent grey.

"Me?" Hermione said, frowning over her shoulder. "I'm waiting for someone. What are you doing here?"

"You're not allowed to ask me that," said the boy. "Don't you know who I am?"

"No," Hermione said, and the boy's grey eyes narrowed. "Should I?"

"You most certainly should. Don't you know you're supposed to bow to a prince? Not to mention rise," he grumbled with a flick of his grey gaze over her chair, "though I expect you don't know much at all, do you?"

"You're not the prince," said Hermione, who had seen Prince George once when he and Princess Caroline were processing through the mud from Kensington Palace to St James's. Needless to say, she had not been overly impressed from afar. "You're just a boy," she informed him, knowing at least the difference between the Prince of Wales and an eleven-year-old bully.

The boy, however, scowled. "Is that so?"

It seemed fairly obvious to Hermione. "Yes, it's so."

"Well, you're just an ungrateful little snot," he retorted, "and frankly, I think you could stand to do something about that hair if you ever intend to be pretty someday."

Hermione frowned, reflexively reaching up to touch her curls. "Maybe I don't want to be pretty," she said, but the boy had already lost interest in her reply, peering over his shoulder instead.

"Come on," he said, sounding impatient. "Let's go and see what the elves are doing."

"Why?" was Hermione's petulant reply, still stung by his remark.

"Because they have to do what you say, that's why," the boy said flatly. "Besides, I'm sick to death of everyone in this castle, so I'd better at least have a laugh." He slid her another contemptuous glance. "And if you say no, I'll tell my father how rude you've been."

Hermione, however, was stuck on the subject of elves. "You mean they really have no choice?"

"Certainly not," the boy scoffed, indignant at the suggestion that they or anyone might refuse him. "In fact," he continued, sounding as if he found her very stupid for asking, "if they disobey, they have to hurt themselves. That's the best part," he added.

"But that doesn't sound funny at all," Hermione said, horrified, and the boy sighed, wandering closer to stare at her, peering like a snake, through narrowed eyes.

"Haven't you heard what I did to my mother? I could do that to you, you know," he said, whispering it like a threat. "Nobody would even miss a servant girl like you if you went missing."

Hermione, who did not appreciate being taunted, folded her arms tightly over her chest.

"What did you do to your mother?" she demanded. "Annoyed her until she ran off?"

"Killed her," the boy corrected, smiling thinly. "Haven't you heard?"

"I don't believe that." Hermione lifted her chin. "Not for a second."

"You—" Abruptly, the boy's pale brow furrowed. "You don't?"

"No."

"And why not?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"You're horrible, but killing is something else," Hermione snapped.

For a moment, the boy's grey eyes widened, something filling them up until it seemed like the pupils would burst; but then, just as quickly, there was a flash of red in them, a little spark of violence, and when his hand shot out to close around Hermione's arm, she flung herself backwards from the chair to land with a crash to the floor, scrambling to get away from him.

"Ouch!" the boy roared, cradling his palm as if he'd been bitten. "You stung me!"

There was no more red in his eyes, though he had returned to his previous scowl. From the headmaster's office, the man and the professor both came rushing out with a clatter, the headmaster running straight to the boy as Professor McGonagall's eyes widened at the sight of Hermione.

"Prince Draco," said the headmaster, pale-faced with alarm as Professor McGonagall swept down towards Hermione, who was gingerly favoring the arm on which she'd landed. "Is something wrong, Your Highness?"

"That girl," said the boy, pointing at Hermione, "is deeply unpleasant. And quite violent, too. You ought to give her some sort of punishment," he added with a hateful smirk, "as I can't imagine my father the King will ever be so gracious as to pay another visit to this mangy castle after hearing what she's done."

Hermione gaped at him, struggling to launch herself upright. "But I didn't—"

"Hush, hush," cautioned the professor, placing a cool hand on Hermione's arm as the headmaster checked the boy for injury. "Stay quiet, Hermione," she murmured in her ear, warning her to say nothing.

Angry as Hermione was with the boy's lies, the Headmaster had already made it clear that she would only be permitted to stay and learn magic if she did as she was told. Obediently, she bit her tongue as the boy smiled thinly at her, pleased with his deception.

He was still smiling like that when she came across him again the next day, this time in the castle courtyard. She had been attempting to sort out the castle's many labyrinthine parts when he looked up from where he'd been drawing alone, spotting her through narrowed eyes.

He snapped his sketchpad shut and came towards her, looking as though he might reach for her again. She stepped out of his path, this time knowing better than to allow it. "You're a snake," she told him bluntly. "I don't care who you are or who your father is. You're a snake and a bully, and I certainly hope you're not a student here."

"Oh, I'm not," said the boy, sounding pleased to confirm it. "Do you really think I'd ever lower myself to this? I have private tutors, like anyone else with proper breeding. Except for Theo," he scoffed in apparent concession, "but his father loathes him so much he can hardly stand to look at him, so that's no surprise."

Hermione did not know or care who Theo was. The only important thing, she suspected, was to get herself away, though when she attempted to take a step, the boy was quick to block her progress, placing himself between her and the exit once again.

"There's something wrong with you," Hermione accused him, and he scowled, taken by surprise at the harshness of her tone. "I can see it, you know, in your eyes."

"Oh?" he prompted nastily. "And what do you see?"

"A demon," left her tongue before Hermione could think to stop herself, and rapidly, the boy's mouth tightened.

"Just so you know, my name is Prince Draco," he told her. "You will address me as 'Your Highness,' or, if I allow you, then simply as Prince."

"You are not a prince." She was less certain of it now, having been warned by the professor not to antagonize him, but she still didn't want to believe it was possible. Particularly because each time she denied it, he grew more and more flustered in his frustration.

"What is so wrong with you that you don't know who I am?" he demanded, incensed. "Were you raised by wolves?"

"My parents are dead," said Hermione defensively, "and anyway, they weren't like me."

"They weren't—" Gradually, it seemed to dawn on him, though the truth of her only filled his gaze with further contempt. "Your parents aren't wizards? Well, that explains it, then. Your breeding is a disaster because your blood runs filthy with mud." He slid a disdainful glance over her, the little spark of red appearing in his eyes again. "Your kind has no place here," he said, and this time, as he said it, she could hear something else in his voice; a scraping sound, like a scratch against her inner ear, and she winced with pain, launching herself away from him.

"Where are you going?" he demanded, but she turned and ran, desperate to get away from whatever she'd seen in his eyes.

Two days later, Prince Draco and his father, King Lucius, departed Hogwarts Castle to return to Malfoy Palace. Hermione did not leave her rooms in the north wing of the castle except when her new guardian, Professor McGonagall, asked her to, though that did not stop something from appearing beside her pillow on the morning of Prince Draco's departure.

She couldn't explain how she knew he had left it. Only that it buzzed with evidence of him, and it filled her with an eerie feeling, as if he'd left behind a threat.

She picked up the ring, a black stone set between what looked like the fangs of a snake on either side, and shivered the moment she touched it, leaving it to fall to the floor with a thud.

"Hermione," called Professor McGonagall from the other side of the wall, where she slept. The rest of the faculty resided in the village outside the castle or transported themselves in from elsewhere, but here it was only the two of them in the cramped but cozy living space that Professor McGonagall had offered to share. "Is everything alright?"

Hermione stared down at the ring and vowed to herself she would never see Prince Draco again.

"Yes," she said, and hurried to find a place to hide it. The last thing she wanted was to be returned to the streets of London, and she couldn't help thinking the prince had left her a trap. "I'm fine, Professor," she called, hastily dropping the ring into a box of old clothes and shoving it under her bed. "I'll be right there."

* * *

_**The Rise of King Draco I, 1725  
**__Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
One Year Before The Fall_

Hermione had not seen Prince Draco for ten years, but the moment she heard the news that King Lucius had died of a hunting injury, she knew for certain he had done it. She couldn't explain why or how, but even after ten years of absence, she knew it to be true. The story was too strange; it struck her as too convenient. Rumor had it Prince Draco and his father had been heard in the midst of a terrible row, and the next thing anyone knew, the king of the wizarding world had ceased to breathe.

The King is dead, Hermione thought with a grimace; long live the King.

Hogwarts, of course, was positively bursting with rumors in the aftermath, just as it had always been when anything interesting (or even close to sort-of interesting) happened. Not merely among the students, who were certainly as chatty as ever, but among the staff and faculty as well, who never quite abandoned their fondness for sensationalism. This, unfortunately, was not the first time the castle had been overrun with whispers, and it didn't appear to be stopping anytime soon.

Over the last two years, two of the most prominent young noblemen to have been granted ceremonial periods of extended academic study had mysteriously disappeared, both of whom had been acquaintances of Hermione. There were not many magical noblemen who made an effort to be kind to the muggleborn girl working in the alchemy labs to pay her schooling debts, but Neville Longbottom, Earl of Something or Other, and Harry Potter, Duke of Something or Other, had easily been the best of them. Neville had first disappeared nearly two years ago, and then Harry shortly afterwards, with the school's presumption being that one and then the other had absconded amid some sort of mysterious scandal or, possibly, been killed. No ransom was ever requested for the contents of their respective vaults, so kidnapping was ruled out as a possible outcome. In the end, nobody had any explanation for where they'd gone, and speculation gradually diminished to the unquestioned belief that no one would ever know.

All that was left in the aftermath of such disturbing disappearances was Theodore Nott, also a duke-earl-viscount-whatever, who was the son of a prominent courtier. Despite his wealth and apparent prestige, Theo preferred to spend most of the year at Hogwarts, immersed in his books and scowling mutely into nothing. Hermione knew nothing about him, given that he never spoke to anyone, and truth be told, she was perfectly content with her ignorance. They rarely crossed paths, if ever, and given that he'd been rumored to have a close friendship with Prince Draco, she had never expected him to offer her the indignity of warmth.

Besides, Hermione was usually very busy working, or trying to work, though at times like these it was exceedingly difficult. Death of the monarch aside, there was something even more pressing for Hogwarts' inhabitants to exhaustively (and irritatingly) discuss.

"I haven't the slightest doubt that Prince Draco will wed my sister," whispered Lady Astoria, a lovely but spirited second daughter who was evidently too troublesome to be housed at court, instead attending school until such time as a proper husband could be found. "Mark my words, they'll be betrothed within the month, and then Daphne will be queen of magic!"

It wasn't that Hermione doubted Astoria was right; rather, it was frustrating that Astoria could discuss so little else. Women at Hogwarts were infrequent, and when they did happen to be present, they usually kept to a separate curriculum. Astoria, for example, was hardly unclever or illiterate compared to her male peers, but she was currently repeating the exact same course schedule consisting mostly of divination and charms; in short, party tricks, to catch a wealthy husband, and household magic, to keep him reliant on her. Most of Astoria's day was spent on decorum and dance, and despite her wealth (and the fact that her indulgent father would probably allow anything if she begged him intently enough), the most advanced magic Astoria ever attempted was limited to her beauty charms, the enchantment of her fashionable hoop skirt, and the actually quite clever charm for her self-tightening corset. Astoria's elder sister, the famously lovely Lady Daphne, had not even bothered to attend Hogwarts at all, learning instead from her tutor at court. The life of a courtier's daughter, even with its limitations, was a life Hermione quietly coveted, and she wished Astoria's time would be better put to use on something more substantial than marriage.

Unfortunately, nobody shared Hermione's resentment. Prince Draco, the abominable welp himself, was a man now, and given that his father was dead, that made him a king. He was expected to be crowned the following month, according to rumor, at which point he would pay a visit to Hogwarts—this being the most enticing news of all. The ball scheduled to celebrate the arrival of the new king and his horde of many, many (too many; who needed that many?) courtiers was widely accepted as a furtive opportunity for the prince to select his queen consort from among the kingdom's eligible women without making his proclivities known. Fathers all over the country would be lacing their daughters into the finest chokeholds money could buy, and as a result, the castle was all atwitter with speculation. Would it be Lady Pansy, the disgustingly rich daughter of Lord Parkinson, Dukeish Thing, or the previously lauded Lady Daphne? Or would it be someone else?

Even the reasonable women were hopeful; _too_ hopeful, in Hermione's mind.

"You never know," said Ginevra, called Ginny, a poor nobleman's daughter who saw fit to visit the castle from time to time for company. She, unlike Astoria, was not as fixed on landing a husband as she had been on actually learning things, but even she was aware that a match like Prince Draco would go a long way towards relieving her family's financial burdens. "Perhaps he would find a courtier's daughter boring," Ginny suggested. "Hasn't he had enough to last him a lifetime by now? I'd be sick of them, I think, if it were me."

Hermione, who'd been reading on the soft lawn of the quidditch pitch, made a half-hearted sound of comprehension. Ginny's main motivation for her infrequent visits to Hogwarts was to be able to fly without judgment, claiming to her mother that she was meeting eligible bachelors with her brothers as chaperones while actually nicking a broomstick from the boys' dorms and assigning Hermione the task of reluctant lookout.

"Hermione, are you listening?"

"Yes, Lady Ginevra," Hermione lied, turning the page, and Ginny landed beside her with a sigh, deftly swatting the book from her hands.

"Don't call me that," she said, as Hermione plucked the book from the ground and re-opened it to the page she'd been reading, "and anyway, you can't tell me it's not a little bit exciting. How often do we get to attend an actual ball, hm?" Ginny prompted, setting a small fist on her hip for emphasis. "Mum's even set out to buy me a new dress for the occasion."

"Well, that's wonderful for you," Hermione said dully, "but it'll just be a load of work for me. I'll have to help with all of the enchantments, not to mention the decorations, and then of course the dinner, and by the time the monstrous thing actually comes 'round—"

"You'll have warmed to the idea and decided to dance until your feet collapse?" Ginny guessed.

"That," Hermione permitted doubtfully, "or, better yet, I'll simply stay in my room and enjoy a quiet evening to myself, content with knowing I _won't_ be sold to Prince Draco at the stroke of midnight."

"He'll be King Draco by then," Ginny said with a wistful sigh, missing the point entirely, "and anyway he's terribly handsome, so there are a lot worse strokes to come by."

"Have you ever seen him?" Hermione asked, turning the page of her book.

"Well, no," Ginny admitted, "not up close, anyway. But his portrait—"

"Handsomeness doesn't make a man," Hermione assured her. "And I promise you, Ginny, marriage to this particular prince isn't something I'd wish on my worst enemy, much less you. Or myself," she added as an afterthought, though of course neither of them were genuinely considering her as an option.

"Oh, he was just a child when you met him, Hermione. Can't you forgive him his flaws?"

"Shall I forgive him for matricide, too?" Hermione asked lazily, and Ginny sighed.

"That was just a rumor—"

"Maybe it was, but now his father is _also_ conveniently dead," Hermione pointed out.

"Coincidence?" Ginny suggested hopefully.

A glance at Hermione told her that was exceedingly unlikely.

"Well, maybe he's changed," Ginny said, withering. "Is that so inconceivable?"

"Somehow, I doubt the only son of the King of Magic somehow learned to be _less_ of an arrogant prick over the last decade," Hermione said, as Ginny delighted in the rare savagery of her language. "I've already seen what he's made of, Ginny, and I promise you, it's nothing good."

"Still," Ginny said with a dreamy glance into nothing, kicking off again into the air. "If the rumors are true, he'll certainly make for quite the view."

Hermione, unlike Ginny, did not consume herself with views, either from a broomstick or when it came to princes. In her view, the wizarding monarchy was becoming more and more inept, though of course it would be treason to ever admit as much out loud. The Ministry was more progressive in its policies than King Lucius had ever been, particularly under the rising leadership of Albus Dumbledore, and even if Prince Draco wasn't a murderer, he would still be king at twenty-one with absolutely no experience. He had rarely taken an interest in anything outside of his father's palace, choosing instead to isolate himself from the world, and for all Hermione knew, he had continued his tormentous reign of oppressing house elves. Not a promising sign from a man who was meant to rule everything.

There was only one other person who did not care for talk of Prince Draco, and that, despite allegations of their friendship, was His Lordgraceship Theo Nott, who responded to any and all gossip about the prince with a silencing glare. Not that Theo had ever been anything more than darkly disapproving, but he seemed to have been swallowed up by silence ever since the disappearances of his peers, Neville and Harry. Possibly he thought he would be next; possibly he knew something Hermione didn't. Either way, she was relieved that whenever Theo was in the room, she was finally permitted a break from thinking about the arrival of the wizarding world's most handsome and least appealing prince.

Not that she thought of him often. Only once, in fact.

"You really ought to attend the Prince's coronation ball," Professor McGonagall said, gentle in her domineering way. "There's no reason to lock yourself away from the world, Hermione."

She meant for Hermione to meet a low-ranking noble, or a tradesman or merchant who might give her a more comfortable life than one spent cloistered in the aging castle. In Professor McGonagall's mind, Hermione was wasting away behind stone walls, straining her eyesight and aging out of eligibility more and more each day. In Hermione's mind, the prospect of being owned by a man only to keep his house clean and hand him babies until the day she died was a far less happy ending.

"You're welcome here so long as Dippet allows it," McGonagall reminded her, "but he will not be headmaster forever."

Hermione sighed. "And why can I not just be a professor like you?"

"You needn't end up like me," McGonagall said, inexplicably finding her spinsterhood to be some sort of a pity. "Marry a reputable man, Hermione, and some of the doors will open, you'll see."

"But will they close again, I wonder, if I've killed him after the nuptials?" Hermione mused, and McGonagall sighed, rolling her eyes fondly.

"Consider it," she advised, wandering away to her transfiguration class while Hermione was left to fall against her cot with a sigh, staring up at the ceiling.

For the first time in many years, the thought of Prince Draco prompted her to reach below her bed for the small box she kept there. She had few belongings; only some books that were too worn or too infrequently checked out from the castle library and a few spare garments, but of course there was one very valuable thing.

One very strange, very unsettling valuable thing.

She pulled the ring from the box and lay on her bed, staring at it. The fangs on either side of the black stone were so peculiar, but they were nothing compared to the intangible sensation the ring still gave her. She thought she had imagined it as a child, but clearly, her previous misgivings invaded her still. It was as if, somewhere inside the ring itself, something unspeakable lived in coiled silence, waiting for the right time to strike.

She shivered a little, remembering the red in Prince Draco's taunting gaze, and jumped at the sound of a knock at her open door frame, fumbling with the ring in her surprise. To her dismay, it fell to the floor and rolled across the wooden beams, pausing just before the toe of Theo's leather boot.

"Dippet's looking for you," said Theo, glancing at the floor.

"Since when are you sent around with Dippet's messages?" Hermione demanded gruffly, attempting to obscure the ring from sight with her skirts, but Theo reached it first.

"He'd have sent an elf, but I told him your room was on my way to the Astronomy Tower. Where did you get this?" Theo asked without change in tone, bending to pluck the ring from the floor. "It looks valuable."

"I didn't steal it, if that's what you're asking," Hermione said, gritting irritation between her teeth. She understood well enough what others thought of her; she was the sole muggleborn in the castle, an odd case of half-student, half-servant, and no pureblood had ever failed to make her feel inferior for the iniquity of her birth. "Give it here, please—"

But Theo was still staring at the ring, either unwilling or unable to stop scrutinizing it for something.

"Where did you get this? It feels… strange." His brow furrowed. "In fact, it feels rather like—"

He stopped, looking at Hermione with something she could only assume was suspicion, so she snatched the ring from his hand and placed it roughly on her finger, shooing him from the threshold and closing the door behind her.

"Where is Dippet now?" she demanded, forcing herself to ignore the shiver down her spine at the ring's metallic chill against her skin.

"Great Hall," said Theo, looking irritated. "But listen, if you would just let me look at that ring for another moment—"

"Never you mind what's mine," Hermione snapped at him, heading the opposite direction down the corridor and attempting to slip the ring from her finger once Theo was out of sight.

She couldn't, of course. Just her luck. She twisted and twisted the band but it wouldn't budge, and there was certainly no way it would slip free over her knuckle.

"Rats," Hermione whispered, staring at it.

For a moment, she thought she saw a glint from the stone, like the flash of red in Prince Draco's gaze, and while she knew it was nothing a set of pliers and an adjustment charm wouldn't fix, she suffered yet another chill.

He had trapped her somehow; she was sure of it.

Perhaps the time had finally come to ask him why.

* * *

_**a/n: **__If you were previously following Divination for Skeptics, you can expect this story to take over my usual weekly update schedule. Thank you for reading! I'm excited to start a new story with you._


	2. Storm in a Teacup

**Chapter 2: Storm in a Teacup**

Naturally, the first thing that comes to mind is why this so-called Lady Vengeance would ever do something so foolish as to put on a cursed ring.

"The _ring_ wasn't the curse," your grandmother retorts perfunctorily, before indulging another sip of tea. "The curse, as I've mentioned, was much larger, and quite inescapable."

You highly doubt that. As far as you're concerned, no curse is inescapable. There are very few true accidents; only episodes of thoughtlessness. Who touches the charmed spindle in a locked room, or eats the poisoned apple from a stranger's hand? Only someone very careless, and you'd certainly know better than that.

"Is that so?" your grandmother sniffs. "Well, you must know very well, I'm sure, given your ample experience."

Well. _That_ point was hardly subtly delivered, but it is your grandmother, after all, so this is not surprising. You remind her that you may be young, but you still know a thing or two.

"Yes, yes, you're very clever, petal," your grandmother assures you, "but so was Lady Vengeance, in the end."

She pauses to lift her cup to her lips again, taking another patently deliberate sip, and in the resulting silence you sigh, reluctant to confess your curiosity. Grandmother, you're quite sure, is positively beside herself with mirth at your brief spell of turmoil. No doubt she will require you to do the asking before she deigns to continue, which you would rather not do. Unfortunately, it does seem rather inevitable that you will.

Fine, fine. You give in, seeing as this is Grandmother's house and anyway, it's not as if there's anything more interesting to discuss before it's time to leave. What happened at the ball?

"What ball?" says your grandmother, who is clearly overcome with delight at your subsequent grimace. "Ah yes, King Draco's coronation ball, silly me. You forget, petal, your grandmother's getting on in years."

You haven't forgotten, but Grandmother does love to have her fun. Even Papa remarks it often, which is to say nothing of your mother's opinion. She's always thought Grandmother a bit lofty, and though you and Papa are more patient with your grandmother's eccentricities, you can all readily agree that your mother isn't wrong. Grandmother always did enjoy her position from on high.

"In any case, the ball," your grandmother presses on. "It's no surprise, is it? That Lady Vengeance captivated everyone, much to her detriment."

Her detriment? That seems an odd turn of phrase. Even in fairytales, the princess usually enjoys her turn as the darling of the room. Before the inevitable difficulty befalls her, anyway.

"Well, I'd hardly call Lady Vengeance a princess," huffs your grandmother, growing momentarily stern. "And if _you_ met a demon, petal, I daresay you wouldn't care to dance with it much, either."

* * *

_**The Coronation Ball of King Draco I, 1725  
**__Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Eleven Months Before The Fall_

Preparations for Prince Draco's coronation, exhaustive beyond even the most rigorous ceremonial merits, were not remotely aided by the castle itself. Sentience only _seemed _a useful thing, really, until one eventually remembered that all forms of sentience tended toward some rebellious years, usually amid the discovery of its own autonomy. Not to incautiously mistake the castle for being a teenager, given the impossibility of gauging its life expectancy, but having known her fair share of adolescents by then, Hermione highly doubted she was dealing with a functional adult.

There had always been mysterious behaviors in the castle here and there, usually inoffensive. When Hermione was asked to return books to their proper homes in the library, for instance, she would sometimes find that it was as if something invisible had already been inserted into the slot where the book belonged. Occasionally a book would go missing, always presumed to be the work of a careless student, until it turned up again in some other part of the castle, mysteriously tucked into the crevice of a window nook. There were other things, too; students often claimed to feel as if another person were present quite invisibly on occasion, which Hermione had blamed on the ghosts until the resident poltergeist, too, insisted upon some eerie sense of voyeurism. She had not bothered herself overmuch with Peeves' opinion, though, owing largely to the fact that he had told her by surprising her in the bath.

In the month prior to the coronation, which was to take place just before the ball, preparations were ever looming, requiring not only Hermione's usual duties but also her attendance to a number of logistical issues. Decoration charms, scheduling enchantments, all were left to Hermione's oversight; the need for her 'eye for detail' (i.e., Headmaster Dippet's reluctance to focus overlong on any tedium) in order to arrange temporary housing and apparitions for the many prominent guests frequently kept her up half the night, and had her rising well before the sun each morning. As the days slowly grew colder, Hermione rapidly grew busier, and none of it was aided at all by her own nagging feelings about the event.

Well, correction. It wasn't an issue of feelings, plural, so much as one single feeling: annoyance. Nothing she did was able to remove Prince Draco's strange ring from her finger, and despite her efforts, (which were frequent, unceasing, and neither unskilled nor un-desperate) it fervently refused to budge. The best she could do was twist it around so the less-remarkable gold band was on display rather than the distinctive black stone, which was made even more conspicuous by its snake-fanged setting. Luckily, nobody paid her enough mind to notice.

Minus two people, whom Hermione deeply wished would notice less.

"You're quite wrong, you know, that Lady Pansy has any sort of shot with the prince," Lady Astoria was saying to one of the other young women in the library. It was a matter of weeks before the ball, perhaps two or three, and despite Hermione's presence in the corner, the two girls were chattering freely over their charms assignment (a decorative needlepoint so uncomplicated as to be quite insulting; Hermione was certain Astoria could have managed it in her sleep). "I wish it would be me, of course," Astoria sighed, "but truly, I doubt he'd ever take notice of me whilst standing next to my sister. Daphne's positively born to be a princess."

"Well, I'm quite assured Lady Pansy is born to be a _queen_," sniffed the other girl—Marigold or Magnolia or something who was a cousin of the Parkinsons, "and that's what Prince Draco's future wife will need to be, remember. Or have you forgotten it's a coronation ball?"

"Quiet," snapped Theo, whom none of them had noticed (Hermione included) due to his silent, shadowed hawking by the fire. He rose to his feet, wrenching his book shut with an intensity so uncalled for it brought Astoria's fluttering hand to her chest in requisite shock. "Don't the two of you have something meaningful to do outside of speculating about the prince's marriage?"

"Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine," remarked Astoria, recovering quickly enough to exhibit some of the objectionable sass that had brought her to Hogwarts in the first place. "I can't _imagine_ why your father wouldn't ask you to join him at court, Theodore."

Regrettably, Theo tore his scowl from Astoria's prettily mocking face to find Hermione's amused one. She cleared her throat, looking away, and promptly abandoned the books she'd been replacing on the shelves, deciding to attend to something else entirely (a problem for future Hermione, not hers) and resolving to come back later.

Theo, however, followed her quite doggedly out of the library, catching up to her in the corridor and tugging her into an alcove nearby.

"That ring," he said before she could protest, glancing down at it on her finger. "I insist that you let me analyze it."

"Insist all you like," Hermione told him stiffly. "Far be it from me to deny His Lordship the gaiety of his inquisition." It certainly did not mean she had any plans to acquiesce.

"Perhaps you think this is a game," Theo said crossly. He had never been particularly handsome, being both rather harsh-featured and much too thin; skeletal, even, for someone born to such abundance, and his eyes were already a muddled darkness without the assistance of his natural contempt in their unpleasant narrowing. "How fortunate it must be to entertain such marvelous ignorance. Is the weather much better in oblivion?"

"Does no one in this castle please you?" Hermione sighed, irritated. "You should be nicer to Lady Astoria, you know. Unless I've woefully misunderstood the purpose of the aristocracy, I suspect you'll have to marry a noblewoman quite soon, and as far as I can tell she's far better than you."

"I have no doubt your suspicions are correct," Theo replied, gruff as always, "though whether she is or isn't is none of my concern. Give me the ring," he told her again. "Or at least let me see it. It is of utmost importance."

"To whom?" Hermione prompted. "To the crown? The school?" In response to Theo's glower of recalcitrance, she deduced, "Ah, so only to you, then. Well," she lamented, "such a pity I can't do more to serve you personally, My Lord. Your dissatisfaction will haunt me all my days. Now, if that's all—"

"Imagine a world where you did not needlessly presume everyone to be your enemy," remarked Theo, who had rapidly side-stepped into the corridor to prevent her exit. "What would it even look like, I wonder," he grumbled, "if you refrained from the pointless beating of your head against the proverbial wall?"

That seemed to be an entirely different accusation, and not one she had plans to entertain.

"My ring," Hermione said tightly, "is of no concern to you. Certainly not unless you give me a reason."

"I can't give you a reason," Theo instantly retorted. "For one thing, I hardly think I owe you anything, and for another—"

"The first thing was plenty, actually. Goodbye," replied Hermione, opting not to owe him any more of her attention and growling under her breath as he pulled her back. "My Lord, if you insist on behaving this barbarically, I'm afraid I'll have to inform the Headmaster that—"

"You know I am a friend of the prince's," Theo cut in nonsensically, dropping his voice, and while Hermione was about to be mightily displeased if he intended to use his position as a method of leverage, he seemed more as if he were preparing to confess to a secret. "This is indeed a matter of great importance, if that ring is what I think it is."

The fact that Theo had connected the ring with the person she suspected of owning it was an alarming one. Possibly a bit enthralling, if indeed he might be able to help. Warily, though, Hermione allowed her more cynical instincts to pause her just before she might have confessed to something she couldn't very well take back. It could easily have been a trick, somehow, and her place at Hogwarts would be snatched away if she were accused of theft. As it was, she could not even prove it had ever been given to her in the first place.

"As I heard it, you are no longer a friend of the prince's," Hermione reminded him, removing her arm from Theo's grasp. "And anyway, this ring is mine, so I can't think how Prince Draco would be relevant."

"On the contrary," growled Theo, "I am certainly his friend."

"But is he yours, I wonder?" mused Hermione, sensing the element that went unsaid. That, at least, seemed to be enough to diminish Theo to a momentary stumble; his spell of protestation vanished, leaving behind a look that was either wounded or affronted. "Now, once again," she said, brushing off any unnecessary remnants of guilt, "I have work to do in the castle, so—"

"Do you not understand that I am the only one left?"

The words had left Theo's lips so quietly and with such misery that Hermione was forced to pause, a rigid halt undertaken (much to her dismay) of her own volition.

"There is something malignant in this world, a poison of some sort, and it is bigger than your pride," said Theo, who was compelled, mysteriously, to frustration. Hermione, a bit taken aback by the desperation in his voice, could not see what her pride had to do with the prince, the ring or, as she presumed the subject of Theo's consternation to be, the disappearances of Harry Potter and Neville Longbottom. "If you hold _any_ of it dear—"

"Why should I?" Hermione demanded, bristling at the undertone of a threat. "This is not my world. I am expected to bow to you, to Prince Draco, and in some sense or another to everyone, so why should I care if there is a poison in it? Perhaps I think this world could do with fewer titles," she snapped, and though she didn't quite feel the way the sharpness of her tone suggested—though she certainly bore no ill will towards Harry or Neville in the slightest—she felt she had been insulted thoroughly enough by Theo Nott to make her way out of the corridor without stopping, carrying on with her work and leaving him behind.

He didn't bother her again, opting only to glare from wherever he stood when their paths crossed, but he wasn't the only one to pester her about the immovable ring. Professor McGonagall had also been eagle-eyed enough to spot the band on Hermione's finger, probably unsurprisingly. Much to Hermione's distress, though, her concerns were for another ring altogether.

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to put my foot down, Miss Granger," McGonagall announced, accosting a stranded and helpless Hermione by holding her captive at the top of the groundskeeper's ladder, having just summoned about a thousand intricate glimmers of flame to the candles of the castle's previously-defunct chandelier. "I've asked nicely, you know," McGonagall reminded her, "but I suspect the time for niceties has well and fully passed."

"You have not asked nicely," Hermione retorted, glancing at her feet and wondering whether McGonagall might actually prevent her from coming down. "You simply said 'If you know what's good for you'—"

"Yes, and clearly you don't," McGonagall sniffed, "which is why I've devised something I think will please you."

"A scheme to make me do what you want, you mean?"

"Not a scheme," McGonagall corrected, "as I would never dream of doing anything so vulgar as plotting—"

"Surely not," Hermione sighed.

"—but rather," McGonagall continued, "more of a test. Much more fitting," she added loftily, "given my elevated academic status."

"A test?" Hermione frowned. "What will you be testing?"

"Well, you wish to become a teacher here, do you not?" McGonagall prompted, as Hermione's chest filled with an unwise and probably unhealthy degree of hope. "You're still quite young and inexperienced, you know, so before I could ever recommend such a prospect to the Headmaster, I would have to be reasonably confident in your abilities."

"Do you mean it?" Hermione asked, breathless and only half-listening to the caveats. "You'd really let me teach?"

"It's not my decision, my dear," McGonagall reminded her, "but if you pass my test, I promise to give you a trial period with my first year Transfiguration course. I am, after all, getting on in years," she said, referencing the streaks of white in her hair (she liked to name them, individually, after difficult students; more than one were named for Ginny's brothers). "I will need to select a replacement eventually, and if you can prove yourself worthy—"

A swell of hope flooded Hermione's chest.

"But you said—"

"I know what I said," McGonagall confirmed, exhibiting every last one of her impenetrable airs, "but I'm permitted to change my mind, and furthermore, I haven't yet. This isn't quite the done deal you think it is, Miss Granger. For one thing, you still have to pass," she warned, "and for another, you may very well meet your husband at the ball, which would mean—"

"Yes, yes, fine," Hermione said, dismissing that for the impossibility that it was. She was fairly certain that despite McGonagall's fervent optimism, there wasn't a man alive who would propose marriage to her, much less anything else, and she certainly wasn't going to accept if he did. "What's the test?"

"You'll have to make a dress," said McGonagall. At Hermione's immediate look of relief, she added sternly, "And before you get all smug thinking it'll be easy, I can assure you this is not just _any_ dress. You can't simply show up to the ball in something plain and call it done, do you understand me?" To Hermione's heavy sigh, McGonagall went on, "I'll have to see the true nature of your craftsmanship, Miss Granger, if you want me to vouch for your abilities. You must give me not only perfect execution, but true innovation, as well. It must be something I cannot deny."

It wasn't a completely unreasonable challenge, even if it did have a wildly transparent motive. Hermione knew perfectly well that beauty charms and material transfigurations were all much more difficult tasks than they looked; even creating a normal gown from nothing would take considerable effort, so creating the sort of gown that would impress Professor McGonagall would take every moment of the week she had leading up to the ball.

"I see what you're doing, you know," Hermione told her warily. "You're forcing me to attend the ball by dangling what I want in front of my face."

"Well, you're very clever, Hermione," McGonagall said, stone-faced. "Too clever, I'm sure, to fall for such an arrant trick."

Again, Hermione sighed.

"No matter how fine the dress, I'll still look like this," she said, gesturing pointedly from the top of her too-curly head to the soles of her well-worn boots. Hard work, as she understood it, was considered rather unfashionable to courtiers, and it wasn't like she'd ever been one of the pretty flowers floating about the castle. "I won't do anything to change my appearance, so that's one consideration gone."

"I don't expect you to change your appearance," McGonagall replied without hesitation. "You're much more than an empty head, Miss Granger, and besides, however lovely a woman's smile may be, a man who sees only that is not worth her time in the slightest. You must only promise me that you will consider my interests thoroughly," McGonagall concluded. "I have, after all, considered yours."

Hermione supposed that was fair, however much she resented having to do it.

"For someone who purports to be fond of me, Professor, you seem dreadfully eager to be rid of me," she lamented, which was as good as acquiescence.

McGonagall smiled. "My fondness is only a very wild rumor. And if I want to be rid of you, Hermione," she sighed, faintly wistful, "it certainly isn't to see you go. It is only that the world is a very big place, and I would so hate for you to miss it."

* * *

Lady Daphne arrived a few days before the coronation ball, ostensibly under the pretense of visiting Lady Astoria (rather than revealing her true motive, as Hermione suspected, of being the first to catch the new king's eye upon his arrival). Lady Pansy came within the hour, and shortly after, Ginny arrived. She was expected to follow the same schedule as the other unmarried ladies in residence, joining them for meals and daily walks, but she spent more of her time feigning a headache and seeking out Hermione instead.

"I have to admit, I don't see how he wouldn't choose one of them," Ginny remarked to Hermione, who was busy researching for gown-related purposes whether the frost that had begun to appear on the castle windows could be transfigured more permanently to a pattern of lace. "Daphne's much more beautiful," Ginny remarked to herself, eyeing the two women through the courtyard window, "but I'd certainly fear for anyone who stood in Pansy's way. I suspect a terrible accident would immediately befall them, and from what I hear, it wouldn't be the first time."

"Mm," said Hermione, who was beginning to wonder if lace was even the proper material. She wondered if she ought to pop by Lady Daphne's rooms to take another look at her dresses; surely she could conjure a reason. It was only another day until Prince Draco (by then King Draco, which gave Hermione a shudder to consider) arrived, so surely Daphne would have other things on her mind outside of why Hermione might be stopping by with an extraneous tray of tea.

"They seem to properly _hate_ each other," Ginny continued, still observing from afar. "My brother agrees, though I don't know why I bother with his opinion. Come to think of it, I haven't heard from him in at least a week; how odd. Anyway, what was I saying? Oh, right, the other morning Daphne's skirts touched Pansy's as they passed—nothing more than a brush, hardly anything—and I was absolutely positive Pansy was going to curse her where she stood. Can you imagine? We all want to marry Prince Draco, obviously, but still. I don't know why anyone would be so keen to make enemies. Suppose someone should tell His Highness? I can't imagine he has any hope to marry someone malicious, and Merlin knows the walls have ears."

"I doubt the castle troubles itself much with the prince's marriage," Hermione said distractedly, wishing she were making the dress in the spring, when more of nature would be in bloom. It was always easier not to have to change too many details, like color, and she never liked being inefficient with her spellwork.

"I only meant that the servants are listening, and certainly the elves—and what are you doing, anyway?" Ginny asked, frowning. "I thought you said you were finished with the castle's decorations. Is this still about that gown you've agreed to make for Professor McGonagall?"

"Yes," said Hermione, before adding, "Would the ivy at the base of the castle grounds make for a pretty fabric, do you think?"

"Hermione," Ginny sighed, which at first Hermione presumed to be in response to her inattention.

"Sorry, sorry, you were saying something about…" A pause. "Something—"

"No, not that," Ginny said, dismissing Hermione's concerns. "Wasn't the assignment supposed to be something about innovation?"

To that, Hermione was finally persuaded to look up, bemused.

"Well, it's just that I doubt you can create a green dress and expect to pass Professor McGonagall's test," Ginny reminded her, shrugging. "She may be fairly inscrutable, but even I know she'll be looking for more than that."

"It's quite a difficult transfiguration," Hermione insisted, but the more she thought about it, the more regrettable it became that Ginny was probably right. Hermione sighed, conceding, "Well, what do you think I should do, then?"

"It would have to be something no one's ever seen before, don't you think?" Ginny said, her voice practically bleeding with good intentions. "So you can't just do the usual satin. Besides, since you don't actually want to catch the attention of any suitors, it can't just be pretty," she added as an afterthought, a concept that struck Hermione with all the fortitude of lightning. "I don't particularly know how you'd make a dress that was both impressive _and_ off-putting," Ginny continued while Hermione pieced together her thoughts, sorting through her mind for plausible spells, "but I suppose that's up to you to sort it out. By the way, what's that ring you're wearing? I don't think I've ever seen you in jewelry before—"

"I'm so sorry, Ginny, but I'm afraid I've got to go," Hermione said, leaping to her feet. "Will I see you at the ball, then?"

"I… suppose you will," replied Ginny, amused, as Hermione quickly gathered her things and took off, not having more than a single moment to spare in proper farewell. Given the difficulty of what she was about to attempt, she doubted she would be able to sleep a wink before the arrival of the wizarding world's new king.

And that, she lamented, was assuming she could pull it off to begin with.

* * *

Later on, Hermione would be adamant that it had not been her intention to make an entrance the way she did. In all honesty, she'd forgotten much about decorum; the castle wasn't particularly social, and she'd never been to a ball before, much less been invited to one. The idea there would be a formal entrance period had escaped her notice, as had her awareness of the time. She had only just finished casting when the ball downstairs had begun, and by the time she had fashioned her hair into something reasonably polished, her concern upon entry to the Great Hall was only that Professor McGonagall would think well of her tireless effort, and that she would not fail her test. The fact that other people would be present was a consideration that was easily, if not particularly wisely, cast aside.

A hush fell over the crowd when she entered, though she could register very little amid her own shock. It was, at first, only a blur of faces: Lady Daphne, who was exactly as breathtaking as rumor suggested in her pale pink silk, and Lady Astoria, whose hand shot out to close around her sister's arm; Lady Pansy, whose eyes had gone so wide as to render her dark stare positively aghast; Ginny, who had clapped her hands together in undisguised glee; Professor McGonagall, whose lips curled up with surprise, first, and then in satisfaction; and Theo, whose dark brow had furrowed, progressing from confusion to… further confusion.

But they, of course, were easily forgotten, because there was someone else in the center of the crowd whose presence could not be ignored. From the back, his curls, more golden now than silver, were prominently displayed, setting him apart from the courtiers' stuffy preference for wigs; his clothes, as dazzling and vibrant as she remembered, now outfitted the frame of a tall and broad-shouldered man. He was willowy, artfully postured, noticeably attractive and wearing the slender gold circlet that was the reason for the night's event, but even he was not immune to the shock of the crowd. He pivoted slowly on his heel, revealing his face in parts; his bored expression, firstly, followed by the silhouette of his nose and lips.

Then Prince Draco, now the crowned King of Magic, found her amid the ghastly silence, and the moment his grey gaze fell on hers—the very _instant _they spotted each other, which seemed to swell forth with significance, waxing like the tide—Hermione knew she had done something terribly wrong.

Perhaps the audience believed (reasonably) that the king was staring at her gown, which was hardly unremarkable. Ginny, after all, had reminded Hermione that she wasn't meant to create something pretty, but rather, something awe-inspiring. A spectacle rather than a delicacy; a feat, not just a fête. She had transfigured a pitch of midnight silk for a base, constructing a fashionable shape (from what she could tell of fashion) with a corseted bodice and a train that spilled out from exaggerated hips. From the waist up, the dress took on a quality of luminescence, a blue so pale it was nearly silver, where the material became less fabric and more an element of weather. Tiny droplets of water-turned-crystal were indistinguishable from afar, as if a translucent cloud had clung to her in the shape of a dress, and the froth of intricate lace from her bodice was more like a floaty sea-foam. It was, in fact, a foam of sorts; she had charmed tiny soap bubbles into their new forms of iridescence, stitching them together to make dainty pearls and beaded trim.

The dress blackened as it progressed to the train, like the heart of an angry sky. Turning motion into stillness had been the most difficult part, but she had managed to arrange each frozen gust of wind (transfigured individually as they swirled around the Astronomy Tower) to form the shape of the gown's full skirt. If she appeared to float, it was no accident; the stone of the castle ground was obscured by the hovering of tempestuous clouds. For ornamentation, she had conjured tiny bolts of lightning to glint like golden jewels across her skirts, blinking like stars, and each spark of energy from the ingredients of her captive atmosphere contributed to a low rumble of sound; a cross between thunder and the rustle of silk. Then, because she had already done that much and doubted a little embellishment would make a difference, she had twisted the ring back around to reveal the face of the black stone; an onyx as cautionary as the gown itself.

Her intent had been clear: I am a storm. I am not yours to possess.

But she, unlike the others who held their breaths, could see that King Draco's eyes had not lingered long on the effects of her magic. Instead they had traveled to the ring on her finger, narrowing to a flash of displeasure so cruel it nearly stopped her breath.

He had obviously spent the last decade growing more handsome; his features were so fine that at first it hurt to look at him, almost like staring into the sun. She blinked, dazzled, but by the time he had taken the steps to reach her, she had remembered the ill-tempered expression on his face, identifying it again. He may have grown up—he may have been granted a crown—but that was the only thing that looked different. He was no better than the boy he'd been when she met him here all those years ago, and to make matters worse, he wouldn't take his eyes from the ring.

"Your Majesty," Dippet hurried to say, leaping to intercept their meeting, "I don't suppose you remember Professor McGonagall's assistant, Miss Gr-"

"Miss Granger, yes, I know." Draco's voice was dismissive and impatient, a scowl reaching his too-beautiful mouth and spoiling what remained of his effect. "Will you dance?" he asked her gruffly, extending a hand in such a halted motion she nearly leapt back, concerned it might have contained a weapon.

"What?" came out of her mouth before she could prevent it.

Draco's lips went thin with obvious displeasure before he dropped his voice, leaning towards her in an ornery bow. "We will discuss that ring on your finger while we dance," he muttered, just low enough that only she could hear it, "or, if you prefer, you may remain standing there while you explain to the rest of this castle why on earth you've done something so foolish as to wear it."

Hermione, who had every intention of discussing the ring, found that she did not particularly care for his tone. Not that she had much room to refuse his offer; the Headmaster was staring at her, obviously afraid she would do something reckless (like, say, tell the king himself a much more suitable place to stick his horrendous ego), and not far away were a veritable murder of courtiers waiting expectantly for her answer. They stood like statues in their opulence alongside what seemed to be a huddle of Ministry officials, all collectively repulsed at the prospect of her being chosen to dance with their king.

"Fine," Hermione said tightly, accepting Draco's hand. He gave hers a firm tug, apparently in some demand for her to curtsy, and she bit back a mutinous growl before acquiescing. "This had better not take long," she muttered, rising to meet the full blow of his look of annoyance.

"Believe me," he said, leading her out to the floor with far less gentleness than he let on, "this brings me far less pleasure than you can possibly imagine."

She half-wished that she'd put together a dress of flames or teeth or something instead of this one, but unfortunately it was too late now to oblige her more apocalyptic tastes. As the crowd stepped back to allow the two of them to dance, Draco set one hand on her waist, beginning to lead her across the floor.

She, unfortunately, proceeded to trip over her feet the moment the music began.

"You can't dance," Draco observed with a barely stifled sigh. "Wonderful."

Magnificent. He was still a monstrous prick. "You can't honestly think I've had a reason t-"

She stopped, blinking, as something shot through her limbs unexpectedly, no less a bolt of lightning than the sparks across her dress. Without warning, her feet began taking the steps with ease, the two of them making their way across the floor of the Great Hall in a complicated danse à deux before the whispering audience of hundreds.

"What did you do?" she demanded, furious that she had apparently sacrificed autonomy in accepting his invitation, and he rolled his eyes.

"Relax. It's just a charm, it'll pass."

He had conjured it without using his wand. She shoved that observation aside, muttering, "You had no right to do that without my permission."

"You," he said tightly, "were not supposed to wear that ring."

"So you did give it to me, then," she confirmed, his hand tightening on her waist at her tone of accusation. "Why?"

"I didn't give it to you, I left it with you." His tone was crisp and bothered, both indifferent and cross. "There is a distinct and immeasurable difference."

"And how was I to know that?"

"Stop scowling at me," he said, which was beyond unhelpful. "Or do you think I enjoy having this conversation?"

"_You're_ scowling," she hissed, and he glared down at her, peering with irritation.

"You've hardly changed at all," he muttered.

Neither had he. His royal garb was much improved, but his attitude was not.

"I suppose it might have escaped your notice that I am king now," he informed her, as she bristled. "I may look at you however I choose. _You_, on the other hand, ought to remember you're dancing with the most eligible man in the room, if not the world."

"Does it pain you, being so humble?" Hermione said sweetly, wishing she had enough control over her feet to stomp on his toes.

"Mock me however you like, but you're still the one who's done something stupid," he replied.

"I told you," she said, incensed, "how was I to know—"

"Stop. Dumbledore's watching."

His mouth tightened and she blinked with surprise, peering into the crowd.

"You mean the Minister? He's here?"

"Don't stare, you menace, but yes, obviously he's here. He's over there." He inclined his head towards a tall man with a long white beard, who was quite a kinder-looking fellow than Hermione expected to find. "He's positively _full _of compliments, dying to help. Abominable." A pause. "Makes me want to hurl myself from a bridge."

"Ah yes, how dare he," Hermione said drily.

"I am king," Draco said again. "I do not need his help. And besides, his curiosity is offensive. He annoys me, prying as he does."

"You know, in my experience, powerful men don't need to remind people so often that they are in power," Hermione muttered, and Draco glowered down at her again. "And as I was saying, I never intended to wear this ring. I simply can't get it off."

"Why did you put it on?"

"I—" She broke off. "It was an accident."

"You _accidentally_ put it on?" Draco echoed, and though she hated to acknowledge a point in his defense, it did sound like quite a mad excuse. "Brilliant. And you wonder why I'm not thrilled to see you."

"What did you mean you wanted me to keep it for you?" she asked, looking up at him as she recalled his phrasing. A mistake; for a moment, she was distracted by a miraculous look of thought on his face, which was nearly not a scowl. His eyes were still sharp and exacting, but the alignment of his features—the bones of his cheeks, which cast a beautiful shadow above his jaw—were so breathtaking she nearly forgot how much she wanted to strangle him.

Then he opened his mouth, which refreshed her memory.

"I have my business," he said, adding, "You need to take that ring off."

"I told you, I tried. It won't come off."

"Fine," he said flatly. "Then you will need to keep out of my sight for the rest of my stay."

She balked. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me. I do not want to lay eyes on you again. In fact, you should go now." The song was coming to an end, the two of them approaching the conclusion of their dance. "Leave, right now, and do not come back."

"You must be joking!"

"I most certainly am not."

He moved to release her, but she held fast. "What is _wrong_ with you?" she protested, furious. "First you leave me this ring, then you're angry that I have it, now you're ordering me to disappear without any explanation? You may be king," she snapped, "but that certainly doesn't give you the right to bully your way into my life and make demands—"

"Actually," he said, "that's precisely my right. Or don't you understand how a monarchy works?"

Again, her temper flared. "Just because you killed your father," she hissed, "does _not_ mean—"

Abruptly, his eyes flashed red, and before she could free herself from his hold, he had pulled her in for another dance, the music starting anew. By then, the charm had worn off and her inexperience with the steps had returned, but his grip on her was so tight she could scarcely breathe, much less reasonably stumble.

"Who are you?" he said, speaking in her ear with the same voice she remembered from their meeting in her childhood; the jarring scrape in her mind, which left her with pain so staggering her vision blurred. "Never mind, I suppose I can find out. Where did you get this?" he asked, twisting the ring on her finger, but she could only gasp from the continued sting of it.

For a moment he said nothing, waiting impatiently for her answer, and in the silence, her mind raced. Obviously Draco knew what the ring was, so why was he asking? He certainly knew who _she _was, too, so none of this made any sense.

"Well?" Draco prompted, and again, her mind reeled with the pressure of hearing him speak. A flicker of frustration passed over his brow as she winced, unable to open her mouth; the effect was an unrecognizable mask to his features, as if the lines of his face were being forced out of their normal shapes.

"Pity," he whispered, sighing to himself as his lips brushed her ear. "With magic like this," he murmured, stroking a hand admiringly over the tiny bolts of lightning on her gown, "I didn't think you'd be so weak."

He was pressed so close to her it must have appeared indecent, if not outright vulgar, but whether the whispering courtiers were scandalized or not was hardly at the forefront of her mind. As a girl, she remembered Draco being monstrous, even nightmarish, but she had since gained the maturity to suspect she had merely projected a fanciful ugliness in order to better suit the terrible things he'd said to her. She had told herself that what she thought she'd seen in his eyes and heard in his voice had just been the product of her imagination; that she must have observed he was a tyrant and adjusted her memory of him appropriately, mistakenly associating her ill-feelings with actual mutations of evil.

Now, though, she was certain she hadn't imagined any of it, though he wasn't quite what she remembered. It was like a shadow of symmetry had fallen over him; his features had intensified not in ugliness, but in perfection, rendered grotesquely beautiful.

He was _too_ perfect; cold and crystalline, like he'd been carved that way from glass.

"Let go of me," she said, struggling to free herself from his grip, but he only held on tighter.

"Where'd you get it?" The sound invaded her again, a tongue of flame stoking her thoughts to madness. "Tell me."

"Your Majesty," she said, breathless from how close they were. She could feel the heat of him pulsing against her, her feet growing numb as the dance went on. "Draco, please, I…" Panic erupted a little, resulting in a burst of anguish. "I swear," she gasped, "I don't know!"

Beneath his hands, the tiny bolts of lightning sparked, and at her feet, thunder rumbled. A pearl of sweat formed on his forehead, disrupting the beauty of his face.

Then he blinked, and abruptly, the grey cooled.

"Go," he said, releasing her and waving a hand for the music to end, the musicians' bows falling to a sudden clatter against their strings. "Get out."

She didn't hesitate. She dropped into a curtsy, not looking at him, and then she backed into the crowd and ran, skirting Theo's narrowed gaze as she went.

* * *

If only his beloved childhood friend Hermione were not a complete and total idiot. She had done such an admirable job of convincing him she wasn't, what with her having correctly guessed that she shouldn't be left alone with him, but then, perhaps that had been little more than luck in the end. True, any other girl would have continued to chase him with a blindness she would have inevitably come to regret, but darling, discerning Hermione had possessed the very good sense (or so he'd thought) to do him the favor of staying helpfully away.

He had given her too much credit, clearly. He had thought aha, now here was a thoroughly unpleasant girl who would not make the mistake of bending to anyone's wishes (however frightfully royal they happened to be) and now, delight of delights, he was learning how spectacularly wrong he was. It seemed one could not stow any rings away for safekeeping these days without some ebullient peasant girl recklessly donning them 'by accident.'

So perhaps this, unlike most everything else, was actually his fault.

_I will have her_, said the voice in his mind. _It will have to be her or nothing_.

"You agreed," Draco murmured curtly in reply, "that you would stay away for the evening. Did you not?"

_I changed my mind._

"Yes, it appears so," Draco observed, furious with darling Hermione once again. What was she trying to accomplish, anyway? Wearing _that_ gown, practically flooding the Great Hall with unnecessary power, and on top of that, wearing the ring! What exactly did she think was going to happen? He restrained his temper, knowing it wouldn't help. "This was all very public, mind you," he remarked, forcefully neutral. "And you specifically said you wouldn't hurt anyone tonight."

_And I won't. Provided she agrees._

"To what?" He dreaded to think it was anything he imagined it might have been. The only thing worse than the prospect of dear Hermione's death would be having to do something truly unimaginable, like marry her first.

_I will have her_, the voice said simply. _You will arrange it._

"You're not suggesting what I think you are, are you?"

_I have said I must have her. Is that not clear?_

"No, it is not, as surely you're joking. I'm king now, thanks to you," Draco pointed out, "and yet you want to waste all that by wedding me to a commoner?"

_She is not common. She certainly looks it, but she is not._

"Well, that's all well and good, but the optics are hardly improved by your saying so. I cannot possibly marry her." Precious Hermione, frizzy-haired and stubborn, who was so perpetually irreverent she'd be put to death immediately at any other court. Dearest, _delightful_ Hermione, who was in every sense a waking nightmare. "I certainly won't dirty my bloodline by doing it."

_Your bloodline is nothing to preen about, and you will do as you're told. Unless, of course, you have no issue losing someone else in her place._

"Who else is left?" he said, bristling a bit. It wouldn't do to lose his temper, but some things rather called for it. "May I remind you that my mother is already dead, and now my father, too—"

_There is always your friend Nott. And perhaps while we deal with him, he'll tell us where Harry Potter has gone, hm? We may yet kill two birds with one death. _

Draco fought a shudder. It had been difficult enough already trying to prevent that particular outcome, but there was no sense allowing any dread. Fragility to his constitution would harm far more than it would help.

"And if she says no?" he prompted. For any other marital prospect that would be quite a mad thing to suggest, but he couldn't imagine angelic Hermione would ever accept him; she had run off from their dance in obvious terror, and whether she understood her fear of him or not, she—paragon of magnificence that she was—was surely not stupid enough to marry him.

_I will have her. _ (An endless refrain; imagine playing host to anyone with such devotion to the point. Almost as delightful as the company of effervescent Hermione!) _You will arrange it._

Well, one thing was for certain, at least. Charming Hermione was going to regret what she'd done by trapping him into this. That much he would happily arrange.

"Isn't that nice," Draco remarked aloud, observing that one of the castle elves was staring at him, obviously concerned the king of the wizarding world might be having a conversation with himself, all alone in his private chambers. "And here I thought I might wed someone beautiful and accomplished instead of perfectly tiresome," he lamented to nothing, before turning to give the elf a smile. "You won't tell anyone I've got a demon in my head, will you?"

Of course not. The elf would have to slice out its own stomach before it even opened its mouth.

Lucky thing, Draco thought with an inward sigh. If that were such an easy way to be rid of something, Draco might have done it himself long ago.

_Tell her now_, the voice hissed, agitated. _I don't want to wait._

On the plus side, at least there was no chance Hermione Granger, ambrosial though she was, would survive a marriage to him for long. Sure, everyone would whisper about how the King of Magic maybe-definitely killed his innocent young wife (even the most generous of compliments would not rise to 'beautiful') on the very eve of their wedding night, but what did it matter now? It wasn't like anyone truly believed he hadn't killed his own mother and father, and that certainly hadn't kept him from the throne.

"Fine," Draco said, reaching for his robe and smiling thinly at the trembling elf. "I suppose now that's all sorted, let's run off and find Miss Granger."

After all, beloved Hermione was about to become his darling dead wife.

* * *

_**a/n:**_ _Dedicated to kellykaloo, for the hype; belleepoque7, for enthusiasm; and Sophie276, for undying support. Thank you very much for reading!_


	3. Darkest Before the Dawn

**Chapter 3: Darkest Before the Dawn**

First of all, demons aren't real.

"You're right, petal, silly me, of course they're not," says your grandmother. "I'm sure the evil thing living in King Draco's head was simply some benevolent growth we all gravely misunderstood."

You sigh, perhaps more heavily than strictly necessary, because of course Grandmother thinks herself the cleverest thing in four counties. Papa always says you got that quality from her, which unhappily reminds you that there's a chance you're being a little unreasonable yourself. You take a bite of your scone, chewing quietly in your well-mannered way, and prod Grandmother back to the story.

Fine, you say, conceding for purposes of harmony. Say you believe it was a demon, then. Whether it was or wasn't, what on earth would it want with Lady Vengeance?

"Well, you're not the only one who found it a mystery," your grandmother smartly replies. "The king and Lady Vengeance were an odd match right from the start, and not even for the obvious reasons; her birth, or her lack of standing. In truth, King Draco was not particularly fond of her, nor she of him."

You can certainly understand that, you think, wrinkling your nose. You side with the so-called Lady Vengeance on this one; from what you've heard, young King Draco didn't have much going for him outside of being handsome.

"And being king," adds your grandmother, sipping her tea. "Don't forget that."

Still, divine right aside, you can't fathom why Lady Vengeance would have ever agreed to marry him. Didn't she know her life was in danger?

"Yes, she most certainly did," says your grandmother. "But inconveniently, petal, bravery is so rarely about facing the unknown. In my experience, it's about what you know perfectly well, and stubbornly decide to do anyway."

* * *

_**The Wedding of King Draco I, 1725  
**__Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Eleven Months Before The Fall_

Outside of the strange run-in with Theo, Hermione did not typically encounter people in or even near her room. It was rather tucked away from the castle's main arterial corridor, so while Hermione often heard the bustling sounds of schoolchildren in the halls, she almost never saw them, and they certainly never saw her. On the rare occasions of someone paying a visit to Hermione's room, it was unlikely to be anyone other than McGonagall, who shared a wall, or else one of the castle elves summoning her for a task needing attention.

Which was why it was mildly disturbing for Hermione to hear a knock at her bedroom door in the middle of the night, and exceedingly bewildering upon discovering the newly-crowned King Draco in its frame.

"Good, you're up," he said, though 'up' was not what she would have called it. Yes, she'd technically been awake, but she'd been strictly horizontal: lying restless in her bed, tossing and turning and twisting the ring on her finger, wondering how she was going to avoid him for the rest of her stay and, in fact, her life. "Come on, then."

He was wearing, of all things, a green velvet robe, beneath which he was not dressed in the usual shift for sleeping but, rather, a pair of breeches that clung to the bones of his hips, and no shirt. It was as if he had wandered over to her room in the middle of undressing for the bath (having changed his mind partway through) and Hermione, previously unaccosted with such informality, quickly averted her eyes from the unfortunate gleam of his chest, which looked precisely as perfect as his other features suggested it would.

"What? Absolutely not." She kept her eyes firmly elsewhere, though there were few options for doing so without looking perfectly mad. "Why should I go anywhere with you?"

"Well, what an excellent question, my beloved," he replied, in a voice that strongly implied he did not find her beloved in the slightest. "Thanks to your exceptional cleverness, you have given me no choice but to extend my offer of marriage. You're welcome," he said, steadfastly bored. "There will be no need to weep."

She gaped at him, unable to process anything he'd just said.

"What?"

"There's that exceptional cleverness again," he commented, neither to her nor to anyone, really. Just a side comment to himself, it seemed. "What a magnificent queen you'll make. Positively resplendent with breeding."

"Queen?" She practically choked on the word. "You must be joking!"

"It'd be quite nice if I were, wouldn't it?" Draco agreed. She still couldn't make sense of his tone, which seemed wildly incongruous with both the expression on his face and the words from his mouth. "But seeing as this one is particularly unfunny, I'd prefer it if you gave me a bit more credit."

He seemed to be suggesting he was _unwillingly_ demanding to marry her, which was neither sensible nor romantic. Had Hermione even the slightest interest in the institution of marriage, she might have at least demanded one or the other: sense, or love. Seeing as this was neither, she could hardly form words to her opposition, finding them to be so egregiously obvious ('no,' 'absolutely not,' 'I'd sooner abscond to Switzerland with Peeves') they should never have been necessary in the first place.

"I've accepted a position at the school," she said instead, which was sort of a lie, though it hardly mattered. McGonagall had said she passed the test, given the success of her gown, and Hermione considered that to have bought her at least _some_ security for the future. "I am not available for purchase."

"Splendid," said Draco curtly. "Anything else?"

"I've no dowry," Hermione insisted. Rich men cared about money, didn't they? Beauty and money, those were the primary two concerns, though if Draco's eyes were failing him, that was on him. "You wouldn't gain anything from marriage to me."

"Impressive," Draco said. "You've noticed."

"You," she began, and then, after an immediate faltering, managed to spit out, "You don't even like me!"

"Again, a fantastical observation, brava," Draco replied, inspecting his fingernails. "Per usual, your wit becomes you, Miss Granger."

She could hardly even be insulted by his sarcasm; bemusement took precedence, and huffily so.

"Then _why—_"

"The 'why' should not concern you," Draco cut in, casting a moody scowl in her direction. "You have been summoned by your king, and you will do as you're told. Now," he said, turning impatiently to beckon her into the hall like an ill-behaved pet, "if you'd come with me, please, so I can make arrangements with Dippet for our wed-"

"Absolutely not!" Hermione half-shouted, and then, in a panic, she made to throw the door shut; hoping, perhaps, that if she successfully slammed something in the King of Magic's face then surely she would wake, proving the whole thing to have been a terrible dream. Worst case, she and her psyche would battle it out in the morning, and that would be that.

Unfortunately, she'd scarcely made a motion before Draco's hand shot out, freezing her in place.

"Don't," he said, with morbid severity. "Do not make me do something you will very much regret."

It wasn't the same voice as the one she couldn't bear to hear, but it was certainly a darkened one. Hermione swallowed, trying to free her hand in frustration, but her limbs remained frozen in place.

"You will accept my offer of marriage," said Draco stonily. "You will not make a fuss. You will come quietly and without difficulty."

"I _won't_," Hermione spat. "Not in a million years."

His grey eyes slid to hers.

"Perhaps, given your cleverness, you think you have a very excellent imagination," he said. "Would you like to try an exercise?"

She forced herself not to shudder.

"Imagine the very worst thing that could happen to you," Draco said. "What would it be, hm? I'll let your mind do its worst," he offered, placidly generous, as Hermione shoved away thoughts of terrible things; abscesses of shadowy dread, mental paths she didn't want to travel. "Assume all those things are possible. Assume I can make them happen without even lifting my wand. Assume that anything you can dream up, any little nightmare you have, is at my disposal."

He scrutinized her for a long moment.

"Now," he said. "Imagine what will happen if you refuse."

He was not even sorry; not one bit. There was no evidence on his beautiful face to indicate he felt anything other than nothing. He was a man accustomed to making threats; she had known it already, or could have guessed it, and now she was seeing it up close. The burn of acid on her tongue, fear that she wanted badly not to feel, became an ashy manifestation of revulsion, filling her lungs with fury that tasted like smoke.

She had not forgotten the look in his eyes from earlier that evening, but she could not give into him now. Not when it was this important.

"You can't frighten me into it," she hissed at him, convinced of at least that much. "I'm not a child, I'm not weak, and if you think I'm afraid of you—"

Beside them in the corridor, a door wrenched open.

"What's going on?" came the disturbed sound of Professor McGonagall, who must have been awoken by voices in the hall. "Your Majesty," she said, alarmed by the sight of Draco, "whatever are you doing here?"

Without any change of expression, Hermione felt his hold on her come loose. She nearly staggered into the side of the door, catching herself just as he spoke.

"Professor," Draco said, neither respectful nor discourteous. "I did not intend to disturb you. I merely meant to call on Miss Granger and be on my way."

"At this hour?" McGonagall asked doubtfully, observing the expression on Hermione's face and leaping to a probably-accurate conclusion. "Your Majesty, I am very sorry to say this," she said firmly, hurrying to Hermione's defense, "but I don't find it very appropriate for you to call on a young woman so late. If you would like to see Miss Granger in the morning, I would be happy to chaperone—"

Then she froze, paralyzed in one spot, as Draco turned his grey gaze on Hermione once again.

"I'll kill her if you refuse," he said softly, and in reply, Hermione said nothing; stared, disbelieving and uncertain, at McGonagall's frozen form. "You doubted I was a killer once. Do you doubt me now?"

Hermione, whose pulse had unpleasantly quickened, wanted badly to say yes. She wanted to say yes, of course I doubt you, you don't have it in you; I saw you as a child, and I know you're nothing more than a bully, who, like all bullies, thinks he has every right in the world to make empty threats. It seemed such an easy thing, so straightforward. She was not the sort of girl to titter at the prospect of marrying a handsome prince even if he were a _nice_ prince, and this one was firmly not. The very last thing she wanted to do was satisfy the spoiled, privileged man who stood before her, and thus, the prospect of outright refusal was exceedingly, troublingly tempting. So tempting, in fact, that the words 'kill me, then, if you're so very dangerous' lingered quite impendingly on her tongue.

But then she remembered the look on his face, the sound of his voice; how he had wormed his way into her head while they danced, and the way his inhuman expression would haunt her, inevitably, for the rest of her very unremarkable life. Twice he had conjured impossible spells without the use of a wand, just in the last ten minutes alone, and those spells were not even intended to hurt her. What could he do to her, or to McGonagall, if he really put his twisted talents to use?

So no, she didn't doubt him, and she couldn't refuse him, either. She would simply have to find a way to outmaneuver him, and that would mean buying time to think. Specifically, whatever time she could manufacture between now and an unwilling trip to the altar.

"I still don't believe you killed your mother," Hermione said slowly, turning her gaze back to his, "but I believe you killed your father, and I also believe there's nothing to stop you from killing anyone you please. Except for me." She lifted her chin, compelling herself not to flinch when his grey eyes narrowed. "I promise you," she warned, "you can make all the threats you like, but in the end, I'll be the one who stops you."

The look he gave her in response was unreadable. Disappointment, perhaps, or maybe he was simply tired of not receiving what he wanted the moment he expressed his demands. Either way, he released his hold on McGonagall without so much as a blink.

"—the two of you," McGonagall continued without pause, "perhaps for an hour or so, and then—"

"No need," said Draco coolly. Crisply, even. As crisp as the grey in his eyes. "We'll be married tomorrow."

For a moment, Hermione was positive she had misheard.

"Tomorrow?" she gasped, as McGonagall faltered, going pale with astonishment. "But—"

"I'd prefer we get it over with," said Draco, shrugging. "No need for excess ceremony, and besides. Most everyone who would need to be present is already here."

Privately, Hermione wanted to scream. Leave it to him to prioritize efficiency the one time she had counted on him being spoiled and vain.

"But your Majesty," McGonagall said, visibly tentative, "Miss Granger does a great amount of work for the castle, and if she is to leave here, then—"

Draco dismissed her with a wave of his hand. "Dippet and I will discuss the details of her departure in the morning."

"But Your Majesty," McGonagall pleaded, "if you would only consider—"

"I have considered, Professor. Consideration is at an end, and there will be no further negotiation. We will see to the details tomorrow."

"Surely," Hermione attempted, "surely another day wouldn't hurt, or perhaps a week?"

But before Draco could deliver his impatient rebuttal, they were interrupted.

"What's going on?" came a sharp voice from the end of the corridor. "I heard voices."

Draco, Hermione, and McGonagall all turned to find Theo lingering at the end of the hall, still dressed from dinner, two books tucked under his arm.

"It's late," Draco said, glancing at Hermione. "I'm tired, and I've heard enough. We will speak again tomorrow. Professor," he added, acknowledging McGonagall with a nod, and then he turned the opposite way down the corridor, not even sparing Theo a glance as he left.

* * *

"I still don't understand why it has to be marriage," Draco grumbled to the demon in his head.

_I should think it quite obvious. You know marriage requires a blood oath. _

Ah yes, blood. Precisely the thing precious Hermione had in spades: common, muggle-tainted, inauspicious and undesirable blood. "Couldn't the same be done without any useless attempts at ceremony?"

_Oh, do my methods not please you, little prince? Perhaps I should come up with something much more inconvenient to occupy your excess of free time._

Draco fought a shudder at the prospect. "That's not what I meant."

_I suspected it wasn't._

"I'm simply making the point that if all you want is to possess her—"

_Don't be ridiculous, I possess _you_. I merely want to _use _her._

"Semantics," Draco said, souring. What glorious luck he had, being the most desirable possession in a kingdom positively bursting with witchcraft and wizardry. Needless to say, his hospitable nature was being grievously misused. "I'm surprised you didn't venture out to convince her yourself."

_Why should I? You're supposed to be the host, aren't you?_

More semantics, he sighed. "What makes you so sure she won't try to weasel out of it?" Draco pressed aloud, hoping to persuade the demon to share his distaste. "Utter delectation though she is, she clearly doesn't want to be married to me any more than I want to be married to her."

_It does delight me, your faint attempts at insolence. Go ahead, princelet, try your hand at mutiny; you may recall I do enjoy the task of putting you in your place._

He had only tried rebelling once, and it had not been particularly fruitful. Fortunately, unlike radiant Hermione, Draco was _actually_ clever enough not to do something frightfully stupid like putting on a ring that wasn't his, or testing a demon's patience twice.

"Perhaps I should rephrase. What would you like me to do, O Celestial One," Draco said, "in the rather likely event that the captivating Miss Granger tries something drastic in order to escape her impending death?"

_Do whatever you like, little prince. If you fail, I will simply take over._

What a promising outcome, Draco thought with relish. To lose autonomy altogether, instead placing a demon's power into the unobstructed hands of the demon itself? Ravishing. And to think this was all saintly Hermione's doing. Personally, Draco had not expected his perfunctory diplomatic trip to Hogwarts to be eventful in the slightest, but given her ghastly charms (her peerless charisma, that sumptuous hair), he should have known she'd set about ruining his life with all the dainty caution of a forest fire.

_By the way, that ring of hers is very curious, isn't it?_

Speaking of open flames.

"I couldn't possibly find it less curious, actually," Draco said disinterestedly. "And as there is _so very much_ else to look at when it comes to the exquisite Miss Granger—"

_Your conceit bores me, princelet,_ the demon cut in, pricking Draco with its exasperation. _Will you never tire of your vanity?_

"Oh, as you wish, my liege," Draco demurred, finding his vanity very convenient indeed. "I suppose you expect me to keep an eye on her, then?"

He made the offer in as accommodating a tone as he could summon, trying to be agreeable so as to prevent future outcomes being immensely worse. Given the magnitude of his indifference, he mostly hoped—keeping his expectations manageable—to avoid any excess gore moving forward. A small ask, in his mind, considering he had quite enough on his plate without winsome Hermione's blood staining what little pleasure he still got from his imported silks.

_Well, what a very good host you are_, remarked the demon fondly, giving Draco's thoughts a preening stroke and driving him to an unmanageable shiver.

* * *

Hermione had lain awake all night in anguish, trying to sort out what could be done about her predicament over the course of the next twelve hours. All she knew for certain was that she must not, under any circumstances, marry King Draco, and at first, her desperation had gloomily clouded her capacity for thought. By the time the sun began to rise outside the castle windows, however, Hermione had equally brightened, coming to the conclusion that if she found the prospect of her royal marriage to be quite mad, then surely others could be counted on to agree.

_Surely._

"Oh, but I'm delighted," declared Headmaster Dippet, expediently removing himself from her list of possible allies. Hermione had hoped he might oppose her leaving, but it was hardly earth-shattering when he provided not a single modicum of help. "Imagine, a royal wedding at Hogwarts! I can hardly contain my enthusiasm."

Draco, Hermione noted, looked vaguely disgusted by this as well, as if even he had hoped someone would sit them both down and sternly interfere.

"Armando, they hardly know each other," McGonagall attempted to intervene, which would have been enormously beneficial, had she any real power over the situation. "And as we are Miss Granger's guardians—"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Minerva, the girl is well over twenty," Dippet retorted, though Hermione was actually twenty-two and hardly the middle-aged spinster he made her out to be. "She can very well run along and do whatever she likes, can't she?"

Except it was clearly the exact opposite, and McGonagall gave Hermione a pleading look, as if begging her to say so.

"Surely a single day isn't enough time to plan a wedding suitable for His Majesty," Hermione attempted carefully. "Perhaps another location might be better suited for the event," she began, but Draco cleared his throat, cutting her off.

"Nonsense," he said without inflection. "Hogwarts is a storied institution."

"Quite right, quite right!" crowed Dippet, whom Hermione now wanted to shove headfirst into the crevices of his own stone floors. "Truly, what a splendid outcome. That the king himself should find his bride amid our very own staff!" he sighed, overcome by sentiment and positively teary-eyed with joy.

"Yes, a love story for the ages," Draco muttered.

"A tale as old as time," Hermione agreed, which was true, and also contributing to her need to deposit herself in the lake.

Again, McGonagall caught her eye, expectant that she should refuse, but unfortunately Hermione was unable to do so without revealing the reality of her situation, which was already an issue in itself. How exactly could she confess that _not_ marrying a heartless king would likely mean her mentor's untimely death? Even Hermione could hardly explain how she felt so certain; only that she knew, deep in her soul, that something about King Draco was dark and cruel and twisted, and she could not abandon anyone she loved by telling him no.

Dippet was no use, and neither were the courtiers, who were such utter sycophants that even in their obvious disgust, they could not tell their new king to choose a more acceptable bride.

"Of course we understand His Majesty's preference for Miss Granger," said Lord Greengrass, bowing low so as to obscure his look of utter loathing at Hermione's selection over either of his own noble daughters.

"His Majesty must follow his heart," gritted Lord Parkinson through his teeth, perhaps to better prevent himself from cursing Hermione through them.

"It's exciting!" exclaimed Ginny, who could not fathom why Hermione was not flushed with euphoria at the thought of marrying the handsome king.

"It's wonderful!" lied Astoria, who had been fervently whispering (probably) about how best to push Hermione from the nearest open window.

"GOT YER ROYAL CONK," contributed Peeves, who found her impending change in status only moderately relevant.

"You should run," said Theo, who accosted her in the corridor as she was making her way back to her room in a daze. "I'm serious," he said, jogging alongside her as she glanced at him, exasperated, and then impatiently looked away. "You've got to get out of the castle now, immediately. Don't even pack a bag, just go."

She didn't bother with her now-rehearsed speech: _Don't be silly, I want this marriage, who wouldn't want to be queen?_

"Do you really think he wouldn't find me if I did?" she prompted instead, and just as she suspected he would, Theo hesitated. "He will," she supplied dully. "Even if he had an ordinary aptitude for magic, he could easily track me down, and as it is—"

As it was, he _wasn't_ ordinary, not in the least, though she hardly wanted to spill those suspicions aloud.

"The point is," she amended, clearing her throat, "I can't run. I'll have to figure out some other way."

"I've tried to speak with him," Theo said, looking frustrated. "I thought I could intercede, but he won't even look at me."

So much for his leverage with the prince, Hermione thought grimly—though, Theo's allusion to his former position of favor was enough to lend her pause. He was, after all, friends with King Draco, or so he had previously claimed.

"Why on earth would you want to intercede?" she said, pausing in the hallway and causing Theo to stumble to a halt. "What reason do _you_ have for opposing his marriage to me?"

It occurred to her that Theo, like the others—like his father, a sullen man who hadn't bothered pretending to be pleased about her being Draco's choice—could have easily been furious about the prospect of the Queen of Magic being a muggleborn girl without a penny to her name.

But if he had been close to Draco once, then there was another option, too. There was another possibility for Theo's opposition, and Hermione held her breath, waiting to see if he'd confess it.

"There is—" Theo hesitated. "There is something odd about him."

A little flurry of something rose up in Hermione's chest; hope, she suspected, however regrettable that was to admit.

"So you know about it, then?"

"I—" He stopped, treading carefully. "Know about what?"

Harsh as his features always were, it was still written all over his face. He couldn't meet her eye, but she could see it. She could _see_ it.

"You do know." She felt her breath quicken, certain of it now. Secrets were carved into Theo's expression, the evidence of his fear now clear as day. "You know there's something wrong with him, don't you? Something dangerous."

"I… I didn't say that." He seemed defensive, though she couldn't imagine why. If Draco had ever used that voice on Theo, then surely he would have no reason to be so unsettled by her obvious concern.

"Maybe if I could prove it," Hermione suggested, the little spark of hope alighting with incandescence in her chest. "If you could attest to it as well, then perhaps I could take it to the Minister," she said with a rush of excitement, "and then the Ministry could—"

"No. _No_," Theo said firmly. He stepped rapidly away from her, physically removing himself from her plan. "There is nothing dangerous about Draco. You have it all wrong."

She frowned. "But you just said—"

"You are unsuitable," Theo snapped suddenly, as Hermione recoiled in surprise, taken aback. "There is nothing more to it than that. You are unsuitable to hold a place in this monarchy, and that is that. You must not marry him."

She gaped at him, disbelieving.

"You can't be serious!"

"Find a way out of it," Theo said flatly. "You must find a way out."

Then he turned on his spiteful heel and went, leaving Hermione to push his inexplicable burst of enmity from her thoughts and see what she could scrape together of a plan.

There was only one man she felt she could turn to now, having exhausted her other options. If none within the aristocracy would oppose her marriage and the headmaster of the school would not, then perhaps one person of significance still would.

Albus Dumbledore, Minister for Magic, had been a vocal opponent of the monarchy for years, since even before his election. He was a constant defender of justice, rule of law, and accountability, but there was another reason for his popularity: he was outspoken, persuasive, and unafraid of retaliation. He had been one of the few to speak out about the death of Queen Narcissa, and the only prominent voice to question the circumstances of King Lucius' death. He had speculated publicly about the disappearances of Harry and Neville, much to the shock of high society, and had hinted more than once at the possibility that something foul was afoot.

Even Draco had accused the Minister of prying, which Hermione realized now was quite a valuable thing to know. Perhaps Dumbledore had reason to suspect that the new King of Magic was not precisely what he seemed.

"Minister," Hermione said, waiting until he was alone in the courtyard before she appeared from one of the castle's alcoves. "May I have a moment?"

There was no doubt he was surprised to see her, though his blue eyes sparkled warmly in greeting.

"Miss Granger, what a pleasure," he said, beckoning her with a motion of his head. "Might I say, that was quite an impressive feat of magic you treated us to last night! I'm told you're a very bright witch."

Given Hermione's general invisibility within both the castle and magical society, it wasn't often that people offered her flattery. She wished she could have enjoyed it more before hastily lowering her voice, addressing something much more pressing.

"Minister, forgive me, but I wondered if I could speak to you about the king," Hermione said, as Dumbledore's eyes flashed with recognition. "Begging your pardon if I'm wrong, but it's my impression that you have some… doubts," she attempted, and then amended her thought. "Some misgivings, I should say."

He weighed his response carefully before replying, "Do you have something you'd like to share with me, Miss Granger?"

"Well, I just wondered, Minister, whether there has ever been talk about any sort of… formal investigation." Her pulse was racing, fluttering with anxiety; surely she could be arrested for treason at any moment. "Has anyone ever tried to—er." She paused, struggling with apprehension. "Has anyone… is there any _proof_, or…?"

"My dear," Dumbledore said, pulling her aside with a sudden burst of agility. "Are you asking if there has ever been evidence of the king's wrongdoing?"

"No, no," she said quickly, surprised by the old man's sudden animation. "I just… You're very astute, Minister. You have always been the only one to express concern about the state of things," she said slowly, watching understanding alight in Dumbledore's eyes, "and seeing as you _do_ have quite an influential voice among the Ministry—"

"Unfortunately, even I cannot make accusations against His Majesty without proof," said Dumbledore, lowering his voice as they spoke. "I must have something beyond speculation to bring before the Wizengamot, if I wish to begin a formal investigation. Something undeniable," he added, with a little hint of urgency that set her immediately on edge.

"I'm so sorry, Minister, you misunderstand me," she said, flushed with wrongdoing. If she couldn't explain it sensibly enough to prevent her wedding, she certainly couldn't do it before the Wizengamot. "I don't have any evidence, I only hoped you might—"

"Ah, Miss Granger," called a voice behind her, followed by the distressing presence of an arm that slipped around her waist. "I wondered where you'd run off to, my darling star," came a too-pleasant version of Draco's voice, which changed the moment his lips neared her ear. "You traitorous little cherub," he murmured, holding fast as Hermione squirmed unsuccessfully out of his grip. "As if anyone could possibly launch a campaign against a king on the word of a servant girl alone! He's barely even nobility, you little—_Dumbledore_," Draco acknowledged, louder, offering the Minister a nod as the latter gave a wary glance of expectancy. "How wonderful you're getting acquainted with my captivating bride."

Hermione turned her wincing glance away as Dumbledore cleared his throat, their moment of conspiracy abruptly over.

"Your Majesty," Dumbledore said to Draco, bowing in amiable deference. "I was merely offering your future queen my services, should she ever need them."

"Ah yes, I'm sure she's very eager to host one of the Ministry's _many _pointless debates about the magical policy it neither implements nor rules," Draco said without expression. "Unless I'm mistaken, that is, and you're actually asking my dazzling bride to _spy_ for you—is he, my pious pearl?" he prompted, turning to Hermione with a glare so impatiently murderous she wanted to send him flying into the closest pillar. "I hope not," Draco lamented, returning his attention neutrally to Dumbledore, "as I confess, I do find it ever so vexing when people conspire against me."

"Conspire, Your Majesty? Not at all," Dumbledore replied smoothly. "There is nothing the Ministry wants more than a healthy, prosperous government for the entirety of the wizarding world. I am sure we can all agree on that, can't we?"

"I notice you do not specify a prosperous _monarchy_," Draco replied, voice tight with annoyance. "Be careful, Dumbledore. Some would consider that sort of attitude proof of incompetency, and I would hate to have to call for your removal as Minister."

"I'm quite certain you would find such proceedings rather dull, Your Majesty," Dumbledore said pleasantly.

"True, true. Imagine a world where I no longer had to concern myself with your opinions, Minister! What a pity that would be," Draco declared, teeth glinting when he smiled.

"Ah, but let's not talk politics today," replied Dumbledore, resorting to buoyancy. "It's your wedding day, Your Majesty! Shouldn't you be preparing for this evening's nuptials?"

"Why yes, we should! In fact, I shall happily escort her back to her rooms now," confirmed Draco, clawing a hand around Hermione's elbow and leading her forcefully back to the castle. "Goodbye, then, Minister!" he called, waving over his shoulder as Dumbledore, once again, bowed.

Hermione was unable to wrench free from Draco's grip until they reentered the castle's stone halls, but the moment they were out of Dumbledore's sight, she shoved him away, opening her mouth to reproach him.

"Don't," Draco snapped, stopping her before she could speak. "You can hardly blame me for anything when it was you trying to get me killed."

"Is that what you think?" she retorted, furious that he had cut her off and positively incensed that she'd nearly had an escape until he foiled it. "I wasn't trying to get you _killed_, I was simply—"

"What do you suppose happens to monarchs who get overthrown, hm?" he asked her, stopping her (ironically) dead in her tracks. "They don't get to retire to the country, my selfish little sunbeam," he snarled, "and even if Dumbledore _could_ dethrone me, he wouldn't have managed it before tonight."

The fact that Draco was probably right sent another shudder of rage into the atmosphere of her mood, inciting and deflating her in precisely the same stroke.

"Why do you call me things like that?" she huffed, choosing to be cross rather than defeated. "You insult me with flattery. It's unpleasant." If she wasn't able to oppose him for forcing her hand, she was certainly going to express her annoyance with his diminutive nicknames.

"I am king. I'll call you whatever I wish. In general, I will do," Draco clarified emphatically, "_whatever _I wish. And if you think there is anything you can do to escape me, you are wrong."

She scoffed, temper flaring again. "Is that so?"

"Yes," he said, adding irritably, "Don't test me."

His admonishing tone, like the berating of a child, pushed her over the edge.

"Well." She curled her hands into fists, glaring up at him. "If that's how you plan to behave, then I'll have you know that—"

"Stop."

It was the cruel voice again; this time, the pain of it struck her like a knife, bending her near in half.

"You stupid girl." Draco's eyes, from what she could see through the bleary torment of hearing his voice, were red again. "You're putting us all through such unnecessary difficulty, and what a waste. You'll have jewels, a crown, a court of admirers, a pretty new gown. What woman doesn't want to be queen? Stop complaining and do as you're told."

By the time she could straighten, gooseflesh pebbling her limbs amid her receding wave of horror, Draco's face had already returned to normal.

Well, not entirely normal. He was no longer grotesque with perfection, but he wasn't wearing his perpetual scowl, and he was visibly furious about something; probably her. He looked very human, and very angry.

"Try to look nice," he said, voice cold. "And do something about that hair."

Then he turned and stalked away, leaving her shaken behind him.

* * *

The gown—a pure white that fell across the stone floor like an overlay of Christmas snow, with glints of gold embroidery and pearls for illumination—was the finest Hermione had ever worn, and she had never hated anything more. It had been charmed to fit by McGonagall, so there was no doubt the tailoring was perfect. Still, it seemed to choke her, strangling Hermione around the neck and pulling at her shoulders and hips. It weighed on her, the gossamer silk as cumbersome as a massive pile of bricks, and the ring on Hermione's finger, which she no longer bothered to hide, stood in garish contrast to the white of her gown. She looked about as mismatched to her clothing as her birth was to her marriage, and it wasn't an irony she wore particularly well.

Overall Hermione was, just as she had always been, nothing particularly stunning to look at. As she had told McGonagall before the coronation ball, no amount of beauty charms could make her into the courtly jewel that she was not; she was never going to magically transform into the princess she had never had any desire to be. In the end, the effort they'd taken at splendor (pointlessly, and at Draco's command) only made her feel like a woeful fraud.

"This isn't quite what I imagined for you," McGonagall confessed with a twinge of remorse, adjusting the enchantment on Hermione's corset. Not that she could breathe either way; laced or not, there didn't seem a point to managing the effort, and though McGonagall did not know the details shadowing Hermione's reluctance, she could easily recognize the haze of gloom.

"Though," McGonagall murmured, attempting to be optimistic, "perhaps it's silly of me to say so, but I suppose I do hope you will enjoy being queen."

Hermione's mouth closed around a mirthless laugh; being queen seemed an absurd afterthought to everything else.

"Did you ever think anyone would choose me over Lady Daphne," she asked with a grimace, eyeing her reflection in the glass, "or Lady Pansy?"

"Yes," McGonagall said.

Hermione blinked with surprise, and McGonagall's stoic mouth faltered, trembling for a single moment as she tucked a loose end of Hermione's unlovely hair behind her average, common ear.

"You are something very special, my dear," McGonagall told her briskly, regaining her academic tone of certainty, "and something very rare, and perhaps it was my mistake for not seeing sooner that any man, even a king, would be helpless to resist if he were clever." She fiddled with Hermione's hair again before stepping back, proclaiming her perfect (or at least good enough) with a silent glance in the glass. "And there is still a chance it may be love, someday."

Hermione, who did not want to say that this king was actually a monster and in fact she was only marrying him because she didn't want her life's only protector to die, turned to give McGonagall a look she hoped was more unafraid and undiminished than she actually felt.

"I will never love him," Hermione vowed, "but I won't let him destroy me. He might have claimed me for a wife, but he won't get to swallow me up."

McGonagall gave her a saddened smile, touching her chin as if to keep it aloft.

"That's my girl," she said, and offered Hermione the crook of her arm, leading her down to the Great Hall.

It was lucky Hermione had worked so hard on the coronation ball, as the decorations were hardly changed from one night to the next. If anyone had questions about the King's rush to matrimony, they didn't ask aloud, and Draco certainly hadn't bothered to explain. If anything, Hermione had been able to witness firsthand that no one ever questioned him or his decisions; he merely said jump, and gladly—reverently—they jumped. Hundreds of them, all with varying degrees of muted disapproval, had jumped within the confines of courtly expectations, keeping to murmurs and glances rather than betraying themselves with an outright word.

Briefly, Hermione wondered if they would all feel complicit; if anything happened to her, would these same courtiers whisper about how they should have stopped it somewhere along the way?

But it would never get to that, she reminded herself. Nothing would happen to her, because she wouldn't let it. She had already made up her mind.

She kept her eyes carefully ahead as she traversed the aisle formed by the guests of courtiers and nobles, purposefully avoiding Dumbledore's kindly nod as she passed. If he was going to be an ally for her, she wasn't going to give it away now; she had to keep whatever secret weapons she had left.

There were, of course, several noticeable swoons as she passed. She supposed that, somewhere in the fray, she had lost track of the fact that she was marrying a deeply handsome man, who looked upsettingly attractive in the wedding suit he must have snapped his fingers for and demanded sometime between last night and this morning. It was a green silk overcoat, jewel-toned and rich, with a glossy interior and a waistcoat stitched with intricate silver brocade. His hair was uncovered again, worn tousled and loose, and it spilled onto his forehead with an impassivity she both envied and despised.

She took his hand when it was offered, though both of them were stiffly cool to each other. The possibility that Draco had chosen her due to some sort of lovestruck madness would have been exceedingly unlikely, she suspected, if that's what the whispers chose to report.

"We don't have to do this," she whispered to him.

"How reassuring," he muttered in insincere reply.

It was a Warlock who was assigned to marry them—the Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot, who was akin to the Archbishop of Canterbury—but Hermione could hardly focus on anything outside of the cool sweat forming at the base of her spine. What was she _doing_, exactly? She was a woman with thoughts in her head, not to mention a wand up her sleeve. Surely she could stun him and run, couldn't she? Yes, it would be treason, and yes, she would probably be killed soon after, but what was the difference, really? She couldn't imagine what horrors awaited her post-ceremony. Would she really have to leave with him? Would she truly belong to him now, at his beck and call, forced to do whatever he asked? Weddings in the wizarding world were bound by blood, which she knew academically but had yet to see in practice; would there be no escaping him once she took the vow?

Beside her, Draco was speaking, though she could hear nothing beside the faint ring of panic in her head.

"Miss Granger," hissed the warlock, startling her to cognizance. "Miss Granger, are you listening?"

No, she wasn't, though it hardly took a genius to know what she was supposed to say.

"I, Hermione Jean Granger," prompted the warlock gruffly, and she swallowed, what remained of the vow caught in her disheartened throat.

… _I, Hermione Jean Granger, vow to love, to cherish, and to _obey, _till death do us part, according to the binding ordinances of magic… _

No, she thought suddenly, no, I mustn't, I _can't_—

Then, alarmingly, somewhere behind her, she heard the faint, familiar sound of McGonagall coughing; a quiet, throat-clearing sound, like the one she typically heard when McGonagall was preparing for bed on the other side of their shared wall, until it seemed to rapidly escalate, devolving to a struggling, choking wheeze of pain.

"Give me a reason," Draco cautioned under his breath, as Hermione's blood ran cold. "Give me one reason, push me too far, and I'll do it."

The bastard. The absolute bastard.

"I, Hermione Jean Granger," she forced out, hastily responding to the warlock's prompting, and abruptly, McGonagall's coughing stopped. She doubled over, gasping for breath, while Hermione swore her life away to the King of Magic, binding herself irreversibly to whatever horrible evil he kept locked away in the vacancy of his soul.

* * *

Afterwards, it seemed nobody was in the mood for merriment, least of all Draco.

"I'm going upstairs," he said after a single perfunctory dance, which they had both resented and suffered through in tight-lipped silence. "Say your goodbyes if you wish. Do not dawdle."

"What makes you think I have any interest in going upstairs with you?" she scoffed, and Draco turned slowly, giving her that same cold look of disinterest.

"My darling bride," he said, each successive word tainted more noticeably with loathing, "you will join me this evening in our chambers whether you have interest in it or not."

The implication of what was to come gave her an unpleasant shudder. "You can't possibly think—"

"It doesn't matter what I think, my ever new delight," he said dully. "You will do as you're told."

As usual, the reality that she had little choice but to listen pricked her with a furious discomfort, nettles of rage drawing blood from a thousand tiny places.

"I have no interest in touching you," she hissed. Draco didn't flinch, though she caught a tiny, stubborn motion of his jaw.

"If you think I look forward to anything that happens between us tonight, my shining star, your delusions become you. Now, are you coming up?" he prompted, turning away before grudgingly thinking better of it, glancing over his shoulder. "You _are_ coming up," he corrected himself slowly, "unless you'd prefer your Professor McGonagall to be slowly injected with poison for each minute you make me wait."

That, Hermione thought sullenly, was certainly going to get old fast.

"Let's just go, then," she said, ignoring the lewd suggestiveness and derogatory whispers as they excused themselves to bed early, making their way through the crowd. Dumbledore, she noted, was watching her particularly closely, and again she contemplated what he might want from her. Was Draco right that Dumbledore was hoping to use her as a spy against the king? And if he was, would she do it?

To be free of him, maybe she would.

The chambers that had been hastily set aside for them were on the seventh floor, a place she didn't normally venture inside the castle. It was often shifting, rearranging itself, and as a result there was little there in any state of permanency; hence its selection for temporary royal chambers. The inside of the makeshift suite—a series of rooms that went from entry chamber to drawing room to bedchamber—were finer than any Hermione had known, but by the look on Draco's face, he found the entire presentation to be, at best, inoffensively decent; perhaps mildly shy of repulsive.

"You will have ladies-in-waiting when we return to the palace," Draco said gruffly, tossing his silken overcoat onto a marble bust atop the mantle before making his way to the bedroom. "For now, may I presume you capable of undressing yourself?"

Hermione bristled, keeping her distance; he didn't exactly _seem_ like he had intentions of doing anything untoward, but she'd seen him transform into something unrecognizable without warning before.

"I'd rather not undress yet," Hermione said, lingering in the threshold between rooms, and Draco shrugged.

"Suit yourself," he told her, and sauntered into his private dressing chamber, pulling the door shut behind him.

He hadn't closed it entirely; it hadn't securely latched, and the door bounced open, left an inch or so ajar. From a distance, Hermione caught a glimpse of Draco peeling his shirt from his shoulders, the fabric falling away to be deposited carelessly on the floor. The gleam of his skin, sharp where the blades of his shoulders took on the motion of tugging the formal breeches from his thighs, was momentarily distracting, though she quickly averted her eyes when he reached for his shift.

"—told you," she heard him mutter, "she's nothing impressive to look at, but you had to insist, didn't you?"

Who was he talking to? She frowned, swallowing the race of her unsteady pulse, and took a quiet step closer to the door.

"—was not plotting any such thing. I told you, he doesn't know anything. And anyway, you insisted I bring you the girl, so here she is, enchanting as always. Shall I ring for some tea before you exsanguinate her," he asked drily, "or are you suitably refreshed as it is?"

Hermione's heart clawed up her throat, pounding somewhere just north of her larynx.

"Magic, blood, it's all the same. Will you be taking over for the rest of the evening?" A pause. "Excellent. I'd rather not be part of it, if it's all the same to you." Another pause. "Well, certainly don't leave me to take care of the body! You do it." Pause. "Fine, an elf can do it, I don't care. Just try not to make too much of a mess or people will talk."

So there really was something wrong with Draco, then; something _in_ him. Theo had known it, and possibly Dumbledore had known it, too.

And that thing, whatever it was, and for whatever reason, wanted _her_.

"What difference does it make?" Draco said, his voice still muffled and indignant. "You heard her. She couldn't begin to care whether I live or die, which is just another marvelous aspect of her sparkling personality."

There was another pause; longer this time. Hermione held her breath, hoping the sound of her pulse was not as audible as she feared it was.

"Hermione," came the sound of the voice; the _not_-Draco voice, which drove her to a hiss of pain. "You silly girl. Don't you know it's not polite to listen at doors?"

She leapt back, stumbling from the sting of him being in her head, and raced out of the room, unsure where she was going or what she was doing. All she knew was that she needed to get _away_, to make a plan, and the casual pace behind her told her that Draco, or whatever he was in Draco's body, clearly didn't concern himself with the possibility of her escape. She needed somewhere she could _hide_—somewhere to think of a defense against whatever she'd unwittingly bound herself to—and as she burst through the door to the royal chambers, she caught the materialization of something just ahead; an inconspicuous wooden door.

It wouldn't buy her much time to hide in a storage cupboard, but she yanked it open anyway, ducking inside as the footsteps continued leisurely in her wake. She slammed the door shut and locked it, holding her wand to her chest and panting, hoping some brilliant idea would come to her before the king, or the king's demon, killed her first. Or killed McGonagall. Or killed anyone, which it seemed like it probably had before, and probably would again.

_Think_, she pleaded internally, furious with herself for not pre-conceiving an escape route. She had been so busy with how much she loathed him that she had forgotten to properly _fear_ him. How had she not prepared for the possibility that her new husband might be playing host to some sort of bloodthirsty creature, or to an otherwise obtrusive curse?

_Think, Hermione, think!_

"Oh," came a tone of surprise, and Hermione nearly gasped aloud, stopping herself only once a familiar face came into view.

"How did you get in here?" asked Harry Potter genially, looking up from the book he'd been perusing and regarding her with the same well-meaning expression he used when he stumbled on her in the library. "And where," he added with a frown at the ring on her finger, "did you get that?"

Hermione, who was having something of a stressful day, opened her mouth to answer.

But then—possibly because there was a demon out there and a dead man in here, and so very little else to be done about it—all that came out was a scream.

* * *

_**a/n:**_ _For LaLuneWolf, for your excitement about the story; for ElissaA27, for embracing the sarcasm; and for rebelsaurus29, who is always a joy to see. Thank you for reading! _


	4. A Stitch in Time

**Chapter 4: A Stitch in Time**

What exactly would a demon want with Lady Vengeance, anyway?

"Right you are, petal," says your grandmother sagely.

No, really, you sigh, because you can't understand how Lady Vengeance could have possibly ended up at the center of all this. First a demon plans to kill her—

"Not kill her," your grandmother corrects you, and then qualifies thoughtfully, "At least not as far as anyone knew. I think her death was more of an unsavory but unavoidable afterthought."

Fine, so then a demon plans to… what, exactly?

Your grandmother considers it a moment. "Well, use her," she says, "as something of an energy source, or perhaps a decorative cravat."

Surely there were better ways to power a demon's magic, weren't there? Even then. After all, the demon was already in possession of a body (allegedly, assuming any of this is true, which it probably isn't, but you're being a good sport) and beyond that, there's always alchemical sources, certain rare plants, unicorn blood—

"Please, petal, we're eating," sniffs your grandmother.

You're only trying to point out that it seems as if there should be some other alternative, demonically speaking. Anything, really, aside from holding Lady Vengeance captive—and whatever happened with the disappearing nobles, anyway? Had they really been under everyone's noses the whole time?

"That's the problem with lost things," your grandmother says with a sigh, drawing her cup to her lips as if the weight of the world rests upon them. "Inconveniently, they're always in the very last place you look."

* * *

_**The Installment of King Draco I, 1725  
**__Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
Eleven Months Before The Fall_

It wasn't so much that Hermione had really believed Harry Potter to be dead. She had _assumed_ he was, given the unlikelihood of disappearing without a trace in a world where people could easily summon missing things with magic, but there had never been a body found or anything of the sort. All his clothing and books (he'd owned few) had been left behind, still in their usual places in his rooms at Hogwarts. Nothing had been stolen aside from Harry Potter, Dukeish-thing, himself.

"I imagine I may come as a surprise," Harry remarked when Hermione stopped screaming, which to her credit was not actually very long but _was_ highly necessary, "though I suppose I hoped you'd be slightly less alarmed. How did you get in?" he repeated, gesturing to the door. "Not that I mind, of course. Unless you're here to kill me, in which case I mind rather a lot."

He smiled that crooked smile at her, adjusting his spectacles. He'd always been a pleasant sort; unpretentious, and much friendlier than any others of his peerage. At the moment, he was dressed rather simply, wearing an untucked shirt and breeches; though, that was a reasonable wardrobe choice, Hermione supposed, if he had spent the last year hiding alone inside of…

"Wait," she managed to gasp, "where _are_ we?"

"I'm not actually sure," said Harry, patiently entertaining her curiosity despite her lack of effort to satisfy his. "Somewhere inside the castle, I suppose?"

That, Hermione thought, was rather the bewildering part. As far as she could tell, she had walked through the unassuming wooden door and emerged on the other side in precisely the very same place she'd been. Harry stood on the landing which she had just fled; the only difference was the lack of sadistic royals and, once she looked closely, a symmetry that suggested she'd swapped sides. (Difficult to tell, of course; the staircases _were_ always moving, so there was no guarantee they'd been on the east side of the landing to begin with.)

"I think it's a reflection," Harry said, confirming her private wonderings. "As if Hogwarts created a mirror of itself on the other side of that door."

"What's going on?" came a voice behind Harry, as another set of figures materialized from the stairs.

Hermione considered panicking, but by then it seemed such a nuisance to bother with it.

"Oh," remarked Ron Weasley, the youngest of Ginny's brothers, who was standing beside Neville Longbottom, both of them appearing to be discussing something as they walked. "Well, this is unexpected, isn't it?" Ron said, smiling at Hermione as if she were a terrific joke he'd thought up over breakfast and only just remembered.

(She supposed she'd rather forgotten about him entirely as well; with six Weasley boys, that was bound to happen.)

"Ah, Ron, Neville," Harry said, beckoning for them to join him. "You remember Miss Granger, don't you?"

"Odd," said Neville cheerily, observing his feelings on the introduction aloud. "But yes, of course, how are you, Miss Granger? Well, I hope."

Leave it to the aristocracy to disregard the challenge of present circumstances in favor of maddening niceties; Hermione half expected one of them to offer her the banal civility of refreshments. But then, remembering what she'd been doing when she arrived, she decided it was about time to reconfigure her constitution and gather her thoughts, lest something monstrous come barging in while they all sat down to tea.

"Is it only you three," she asked, possibly a bit suspiciously, "or are there others?"

"Just us," said Harry. "And, apparently, you."

"You look a bit peaky," commented Ron. "Is everything alright?"

"Doubtful, isn't it?" Neville remarked with a little laugh.

Hermione had to agree.

"There's… something chasing me," she admitted, unsure now where to start. "Or someone, I suppose. I can't quite explain it."

"May I take the liberty of presuming you've met Prince Draco?" Harry wryly guessed, startling Hermione with his accuracy. "Or, at least, the thing that lives in his body. I hope you don't mind my asking whether it has something to do with that," he added, pointing again to her ring. "I do rather hate to jump to conclusions, only it seems quite invariably the thing."

"I—" Hermione stopped. "What—" Another pause.

Then, determining her priorities, she asked, "What do you know about this ring?"

"Only that the stone it contains looks rather like the one we're looking for," Neville said, in a way that made Hermione take a cautious step backwards. "Oh, no, no," Neville laughed, "we don't mean to take it from you, of course."

"Well, we do," Ron corrected with a glance at Harry, as if to ask, _Don't we?_

"There's certainly no question Voldemort's after it," Harry said carefully, which seemed to be private confirmation to Ron, "but I suppose it's possible he doesn't know what it is. Don't you think?"

"Vol-" Hermione stopped. "Who?"

"The demon," Harry clarified, returning his attention to her. "The one inside Prince Draco."

She grimaced, remembering another tiny detail. "I'm afraid it's actually _King_ Draco, now."

"Is it? Drat," sighed Harry. "I'd so hoped Lucius could manage to do us a favor and stay alive. He's ever so unhelpful otherwise."

Hermione frowned. "Are you saying this demon, this Voldy-thing—"

"Voldemort," Neville said. "That's its name."

"Fine, Voldemort," said Hermione, though she felt rather uncomfortable voicing it aloud, as if saying the demon's name might inadvertently summon it. "It lives… _in_ Draco?"

"I think the common terminology for this type of human-demon relationship is possession," said Harry. "But all the facts seem to be there, so yes."

"And this ring," Hermione said with a frown, twisting it on her finger. "It's valuable?"

"I suspect that it is, yes," Harry confirmed. "We've been looking for it rather a long time."

"Ten years, in fact," said Neville. "Well, longer, if you count our parents."

"I—" Hermione inhaled, and then sighed. It wouldn't be proper to question them as brutishly as she wished to, considering their rank and her position, but at the moment she rather felt that decorum could go and hang. "I haven't a lot of time," she said, "so if you could explain yourselves more expediently, that would be much appreciated."

They exchanged a glance between themselves, warily considering her request. Simultaneously, another thing of relevance—i.e., her wedding gown, and also the crown tangled somewhere in her curls, which of course they'd all been much too proper to mention—popped into Hermione's head.

"Also, I am queen now," she abruptly remembered, "or about to be, so if it's possible to command you, then assume I have done so." She cleared her throat. "Just as a matter of… service to the crown."

Immediately, Harry's face paled.

"You mean you've—"

"Married both Draco and his demon? Yes," Hermione confirmed, letting them draw their own conclusions from there.

Ron's brow furrowed. "But then you're—"

"Bound to him by blood? Quite."

Neville, too, looked concerned. "And you've got—"

"A ring I don't know what to do with? Yes," Hermione said. "And now that we're all quite up to speed…"

She trailed off, waiting for them to come to their senses and tell her everything they clearly knew, which she frustratingly did not.

"The door wouldn't have appeared for nothing," Harry remarked appealingly to Neville, who nodded his reluctant agreement. "I think we ought to tell her."

"Fine," Neville said, turning back to Hermione, "but you mustn't tell anyone else."

"Especially not Theo," added Harry, surprising Hermione, though she didn't feel it an important thing to focus on at the moment.

"Alright," she said, solemnly swearing herself to whatever mischief would doubtlessly follow. "Tell me everything you know, then, and quickly."

Harry, bless him, wasted little time. "Perhaps you've heard of the Deathly Hallows," he said. "The cloak, the wand, and the stone?"

Hermione frowned. "I've certainly heard of them, but—"

She, like most reasonably educated people, did not consider children's tales to merit much consideration when it came to the scope of reality. After all, it was 1725. Science and technology were more advanced than they had ever been; they could very nearly cure the pox, for heaven's sake.

"For purposes of expediency, let's assume that if a demon can possess a prince and a mirror of the castle can be made to appear in times of need, the Hallows are equally real," Harry suggested.

"Fair enough," Hermione warily reasoned.

"Here's what we do know," inserted Neville. "Our fathers," he said, with a gesture between himself and Harry, "were charged with keeping the secret of the Hallows safe, or trying to. Mine was tortured to oblivion, and Harry's was, well—"

"Murdered," supplied Harry crisply.

"Ah," said Hermione, feeling nauseated once again.

"We know very little about Voldemort," Harry continued, holding up a book whose cover she vaguely recognized in an attempt to indicate he'd been researching the topic at length. "We're not sure when Draco made the deal that allowed his possession, exactly, but obviously we have a guess as to why. The prince has immense, unimaginable amounts of power, and in return, Voldemort has—"

"Access to the monarchy, which Draco now controls." Hermione swallowed. "Well," she said bitterly, "what a lovely bargain that darling prince has struck."

"Care of the two known Hallows passed to us," Neville explained, and then amended, "Well, to Harry."

"My father had one," Harry clarified. "And he knew who had ended up with the other."

Hermione braced herself. "Which was?"

"The wand," Harry said. "Belonging to King Lucius."

Unfortunate. "And you have—"

"The cloak," said Neville, gesturing to Harry. "An heirloom belonging to the Potter family."

Which left one more. "And the stone?"

They glanced at each other again, and then at her.

"What exactly does that ring do?" asked Ron, careful to sound only faintly curious.

"Nothing," Hermione said. "Or, at least, nothing that I know of."

"May we… see it?" Harry asked tentatively.

"You could," Hermione said, "if I could take it off."

She didn't add that Theo, too, had once asked her to see it without explaining why. She had the distinct feeling that it wasn't worth mentioning at the moment.

"Hm," said Neville deflatedly. "Well."

"What _should_ it do?" Hermione pressed them. "Assuming this is the stone you're looking for, anyway."

"Conjure the dead, I believe," Harry replied, giving the ring something of a longing look as the word _murdered_ wandered again through Hermione's thoughts, troubling her anew. "Though there are some alternate theories."

Hermione glanced down at the book in his hand, frowning.

"That book is missing," she abruptly remembered, finally placing the title _Secrets of the Darkest Art _from where she'd last seen it on a list of books needing to be catalogued. "Well, it really shouldn't even be in the school's library to begin with, in my opinion, but—" She broke off. "Wait a minute," she realized aloud. "_All_ the books that have been missing have been about the dark arts."

Perhaps Peeves had not, in fact, been harassing her with literary theft after all, though she shivered slightly to think what it might have meant when the others had complained of feeling watched.

"I suppose it makes sense that the castle only has one copy," Harry said, coming to the same conclusion she had: that, in fact, the castle was not technically misbehaving, but rather hospitably sharing itself with a set of invisible occupants.

"That's… not really the point," Hermione told him, dismissing the extraneous details of what a sentient castle could or couldn't do. "You've spent the last two years researching the dark arts? But the Hallows are _myths_," she said impatiently, "not dark artefacts!"

"Considering their power, I'm not sure that's true," Neville said, shifting uncomfortably in his doubt.

"There's no proof, of course, as to whether they are or they aren't," Harry supplied. "But the point is, none of us have been willing to leave Hogwarts because we need to find a way to keep Prince Draco, and therefore Voldemort, from gaining access to all three Hallows. It's been a matter of research," he said, gesturing to the book again, "which, unfortunately, has been rather slow going."

Unsurprising. Harry was pleasant and friendly, but hardly academic.

"What's supposed to happen if Voldemort gains access to all three Hallows?" Hermione asked, bracing herself for disaster.

"Well, we suspect it means he'll be able to give himself a body," Harry said. "We assume, anyway, that he doesn't wish to remain inside Draco."

"But—" Hermione stopped. "But if King Lucius had the wand, then—"

"Then Draco most likely has it now," Neville confirmed, grimacing.

"And if I have the ring—" Hermione felt the blood leave her cheeks. "Oh no."

The sides, she realized heavily, were intensely uneven.

"You can stay here," Harry assured her quickly. "The castle provides for us, somehow. There's food, and with another set of eyes, I'm sure we could work much faster—"

"No, I can't stay." Instantly, Hermione was flooded with a rush of new-old fear. "I can't stay here; I'll have to go back."

Ron laughed, and the others glanced at him.

"Hm? Oh, sorry, I assumed that was a joke," he said, fixing Hermione with a freckled look of disbelief. "You _are_ joking, aren't you?"

"No. I'm not." The demon, Voldemort, had seen her enter through this door. Even if it couldn't get inside, it still knew where she was, and if she didn't come out it would surely kill McGonagall, or any number of people who remained in the castle's more-real reflection. "I'll have to go back. In fact, I'll have to go back immediately," Hermione realized, pulse quickening. "I already don't know what that demon might be doing in my absence!"

She turned, ready to throw herself back into the corridor, when Harry lunged forward and caught her arm.

"Wait," he said, which was an excellent reflex, as she had only just realized that she still had no idea what she intended to do once the door had been reopened. "I'm terribly sorry, Miss Granger, but I'll need to ask something of you before you go."

He sounded sorry indeed; _quite _sorry.

She turned slowly, facing him.

"You can't let Voldemort know you've found me," Harry said.

Understood. "Of course, I wouldn't, but—"

"And you'll have to help us with something else." This, she observed, was what the apology had really been for; he was about to ask her for a very grand favor indeed.

"What is it?" she asked warily, glancing between the three men and hoping very much that it wasn't what she thought it was.

They, on the other hand, returned her glance with reluctance, except for Harry.

"You'll have to help us kill King Draco," Harry said, undaunted, as Hermione desperately wished, not for the first time, that she could manage to be a little less right.

* * *

Generally speaking, when the demon took over, Draco's experience was a bit like being in an unpleasant dream. Well, it was rather identical to the sensation of sleep, actually, but the unpleasant bit was not knowing what was being done to his body, which was one of Draco's personal possessions for which he reserved an exceptional fondness. Not narcissistically, of course. Just… a normal amount of fond; appreciation, perhaps. He preferred, in general, when unknown things were not being done to his limbs, which he needed, or to his hair, which he liked. The lack of control was the bothersome part, lending to the nightmarish quality, and thus he always felt a measurable degree of relief when he was sucked from his tidy vacuum of unconsciousness, surfacing in his usual anatomical frame with an unseemly gulp.

"Well," Draco said, finding himself sitting atop his bed. "Is it done?"

_No_, the demon said in his mind. _She's run off._

Draco braced himself. "And you've taken this… well, I hope?"

There was always the chance his body had gone off for a little hunting jaunt without his knowledge or permission. Who might have seen the shadowy figure of the king creeping through the woods this time? They would have needed to die for it, of course, which presumably the demon took care of in the absence of Draco's autonomy. He hoped no flocks of sheep had dropped dead; always very bad for the economy. It was a rather kingly thing to maintain proper appreciation of livestock, or so he'd gathered between bouts of satanic ritual.

_She'll be back_, said the demon smartly. _In the meantime, you'll need to leave Hogwarts. I don't like it here._

"It's drafty," Draco muttered in agreement. Castles were rather unlike palaces that way.

_Your physical comforts mean nothing to me, princelet. I simply want to be away from all this ghastly ancient magic. _

"I don't see why it should matter," Draco remarked, finding his neck a bit sore and the tips of his fingers a bit burnt. "You seem to be doing perfectly fine, don't you? You're married now, so. Congratulations on that."

He was punished for his insolence with a twitch in his head, searing-hot.

You _took the marriage vow, princelet, not me, and you also lost me your too-clever bride when she went through a door that didn't exist. I will not stand another night in this castle, with all its little nooks and crannies to scuttle into. I will have what I want and you will give it to me._

Stupendous. "Well, it pleases me as ever to serve you, my liege," Draco said, "though I wonder how you expect me to fetch her back, given her little excursion through the walls."

What an exceptionally thoughtful bride, leaving him to suffer the consequences of her impish attempt at escape. So now, not only was sprightly Hermione not dead, but the demon was displeased, and as a fun and savory addition, Draco was still married to her against his will. Such jubilance, such pestilence! He could hardly imagine why he'd ever opposed the insidious prospect of her darling death.

_That ring,_ the demon said stubbornly. _The ring must be how she's escaping._

"I don't suppose you'd like one yourself," Draco commented.

_I would. In fact I would like _that _one, specifically. And I would like the girl, too, and furthermore, I will not be made to wait._

"And if she doesn't come back?"

_She will come back._

"Potter didn't," Draco remarked, and suffered instant remorse, doubling over as the demon scraped its claws through his thoughts.

_The girl is different. She will return. She knows others will be punished for her absence and lacks the stomach to let them suffer for her wrongs._

"Perhaps," Draco said, choking a little from the blinding pain, "in the meantime, you might consider killing someone else, just as a matter of recreation. Some other lovely witch with pretty jewelry? I could have one of them here with the snap of my fingers, you know." Benefits of being king, or being handsome, or being generally the sort of person other people hated to displease. "One of the Lady Greengrasses, whichever you'd prefer, or perhaps Parkinson's daughter—"

_No. This one, the Granger girl, is the most powerful. Those useless baubles are vacant and untrained; empty scraps compared to her. And since you have already cost me all my avenues to Harry Potter… _

Terrific. What gratifying news! As if it had not been bad enough already. Longbottom was gone, Weasley was gone (not that anyone had noticed); one by one, evidence that Harry Potter had ever existed was wiping itself out, leaving Draco behind to chase whatever shadows remained in his wake.

It wouldn't matter to ask why the demon required _more_ power, of course. It had him, it had a wand it didn't even use, and now it had Hermione Granger's enthralling hand in marriage. Never mind Draco and his silly human needs; his longings, his private thoughts and desires, were only trinkets this demon cast aside.

"What would you like me to do, O Star of Wisdom?" asked Draco, falling wearily backwards on the bed. The duvet was torn to shreds and the canopy had been dismantled alongside the splintered wood of its four posts, so it seemed the demon had already indulged some calamitous bacchanalia before resurrecting Draco's control.

_Take her from Hogwarts tomorrow and do not return._

"Marvelous," murmured Draco, before the draining effort of sharing his body overtook him and he fell, at last, into an exhausted and dreamless sleep.

* * *

Harry, Neville, and Ron seemed to find the whole thing so simple. Oh, the new king shared a body with a vengeful demon? Well, then simply kill the demon's host; after all, it worked for other kinds of symbiotic parasites, so naturally there was nothing particularly complicated about it.

When asked why _they_ had not done it, of course, they demurred with spectacular tentativity.

"You may have noticed he's… rather powerful," said Neville, grimacing.

"A bit difficult to sneak up on, too," contributed Ron.

"I'd be more than happy to kill him myself," Harry assured her, adding the caveat, "But, unfortunately, he's very much in the business of trying to kill me."

Boys, honestly.

In the end, they agreed it should all be rather simple. Hermione was his wife, wasn't she? She had access to his private chambers, to all his rooms, to his food. Poison him! Easily done. A little stab somewhere? Surely even _she_ could dig up a knife; Hogwarts was practically overflowing with weaponry. All she'd have to do was take a human life, jaunt back to their sneakaway hiding place, et voilà! Comme c'est facile; she'd just have to wash the king's blood off her hands and return to a life of quiet academia, assuming she wasn't executed for regicide or treason in return for her glorious service to mankind.

"And what should I do if he kills me first?" she demanded.

The three men glanced at each other, and then back at her.

"Well, I suppose don't let him," said Harry kindly, and Hermione let out a growl of dissatisfaction with his completely unsurprising answer, brandishing her wand to angle it wildly into nothing.

The torches were still aflame when she returned to the seventh floor corridor; she supposed she couldn't have been gone more than a couple of hours. Behind her, the door smoothed back into wall, and she forced a sickened swallow down her very reluctant throat as she prepared for the possibility of duelling a demon to her death.

"Draco?" she hissed tentatively, holding her wand outstretched.

She tried a silent _Revelio_; nothing.

She exhaled, hesitantly satisfied that she was alone for now, and turned back towards the royal chambers.

The instant she opened the door, calling up a silent _Protego_, her breath tightened again; the rooms had been ransacked, torn apart with only slivers for evidence of furniture left behind. Every single tapestry was mangled, every upholstery shredded, every chair (any that remained in recognizable condition, that is) ruptured and overturned, and every surface of the damask wallpaper had been charred to a blackened crisp. The fire, spluttering in the hearth, coughed up a wheeze of flame at her entry, and then fizzled weakly to ash. She kept her hand tightly around her wand, ready to cast at a moment's notice.

She nearly choked on alarm when she finally located Draco, leaping back from the threshold as she caught sight of him lying on the bed. She brandished her wand, the tip of it briefly sparking with some impulsive, unknowable spell, but upon closer, cautious inspection, she could see he was currently sleeping. His legs hung from the edge of the bed, his bare feet floating inches above the wooden floors.

He had, as her stomach twisted to notice, long toes; slender arches. It seemed such an intimate thing, the sight of Draco's bare feet, and it only grew more so when she glanced slowly upwards, tentatively taking in his appearance. His robe had fallen open and his chest was rising and falling slowly, the motion of it unobstructed from her view. The expression on his face was tranquil, serene; his lips were parted beatifically, lashes floating above his cheek.

He had the coloring of an angel, which was maddening. He was all golden and porcelain, glowing from the light of the flickering candles beside the bed, and was she really supposed to kill him like this? Watch him take his last breath, without him even knowing it was coming? She tried to summon all the meanness in him, the cruelty; everything he'd ever said and threatened through his narrow, contemptuous scowl. _Beloved Draco_, she imagined herself whispering, _positively resplendent with arrogance._

She pulled out her wand and stepped closer, holding it to his throat.

She leaned over him on the bed, trying to talk herself through it. If she didn't kill him, she reminded herself, he would almost certainly kill her. Not only that, but he would kill McGonagall; he would kill Ginny; he would kill everyone in this castle, which meant this was only one life for many. If she could just manage it now, then she would be saving the lives of hundreds; perhaps thousands. She would be saving the fate of an entire wizarding kingdom, none of whom even knew what sort of monster lived inside their king.

The ring on her finger glittered in the candlelight as she leaned over him, the black stone refracting gold. It shone in her eyes, temporarily dismaying her. Why had he given it to her? She remembered suddenly that he had said he had _left it with her_, and tried to sort out what that might have meant. _Had_ he given it to her? If so, that was bewildering; did he simply not want the demon to go free, which would mean losing the powers he'd gotten out of the deal? Had he lied about the ring's source, hoping she wouldn't discover the truth of its existence? A thousand things were possible, but from what she knew of his character, so were all their alternatives. He had only married her after he'd seen it; had that been the demon's doing, or his own?

He was so peaceful like this; he looked so young, as young as she was and far younger than she currently felt, and below the delicate lids of his eyes were pale shadows she had never noticed before. He looked tired, and though she told herself to stop looking—to stop associating him with his visible traces of humanity—coming closer did not seem to help.

She closed her own eyes briefly, preparing herself. She knew the incantation, of course; it was illegal, but that certainly didn't make it a secret. She knew the words she'd have to speak aloud, and theoretically, she knew how they had to be said. She knew she would have to channel everything she was, every iota of power she possessed, into speaking the incantation, and so she lowered her wand to his temple, and—

"If you're going to kill me, my lethal rose, at least do it with some conviction."

She gasped as his eyes opened and the wand, torn from her hand, shot like an arrow across the room. She stumbled backwards, hurrying to retreat, but Draco's fingers had already closed around her wrist, tugging her towards him.

In a moment, a flash, he had thrown her on her back, pinning her down.

She braced herself, holding her breath for what would come next, but she could see that his eyes were grey, at least. They were cold and crisp and furious, but this was undoubtedly Draco himself, not his demon. Still, there was no telling when Voldemort might reappear, so she tried to calm herself, thinking of what could be done.

"Pack your things." His mouth was dry, it seemed. Hers was, too. "We're leaving."

Her pulse quickened. "I'm not going anywhere with you!"

"Yes, my cherished laurel, you are." His grimace tightened. "And don't blame me when your fate turns out far worse for the latest stupid thing you've done."

He had one knee on her thigh, both hands on her wrists. His robe fell around them in a velvet-draped embrace of fabric, and this close she could smell the wine on his breath, the amber of his cologne. A hint of smoke, the heady evidence of damage, was sweetly cedar.

"What if," she began, and swallowed. "What if I told you I preferred to die?"

"Then I should be very happy to oblige you, my pearlescent dove. But not yet." She caught the motion of his jaw shifting, accommodating his stubborn glance. "Not just yet."

He released her, withdrawing suddenly to stand on his feet, and plucked her wand from the floor. A little motion of his fingers had the fire roaring in the hearth, and then, before Hermione could move, Draco had tossed her wand into it, leaving the furnace to reply with a hearty, satisfied belch of flames.

"No," she gasped unthinking, one hand flying to her mouth. That wand, aside from being her only possible method of escape, had been her only valuable possession; it had given her the only power she had ever held in her entire life, and tears pricked cruelly at her eyes for having witnessed the triviality of its loss.

Draco didn't look at her.

"We'll leave at first light," he said. "Get your things. And don't bother to run," he told her tiredly. "You know precisely what I'll do if you try it."

Bitterly, she thought it was a welcome change of pace that neither of them felt it necessary to clarify his threats each time he demanded something she wanted desperately not to give.

"I should have killed you when I had the chance," she managed to say instead, forcing it through her teeth, and only then did Draco meet her eye, smiling thinly.

"Yes, you should have," he agreed, "though I doubt you would have enjoyed the outcome. Still, I'm sure you'll have another chance to try, my ever patient moonbeam." A pause. "You have until morning light, and then I expect you back here and ready to leave."

Then Draco turned and walked out of the room, shouting for an elf to attend to his royal hunger.

* * *

As there were no belongings for her to pack, Hermione wasted no time pretending. Instead, she raced straight for the door in the seventh floor corridor, hoping it would appear a second time. It did, to her relief; she burst through it and took the stairs at a run, shouting for Harry.

"What is it?" he said, appearing from the landing above as she peered upwards. "Ah," he said, moderately crestfallen at the obvious indication that her presence meant Draco remained alive. "Well, I suppose things could have been worse."

He descended the stairs at a trot while Hermione forced herself not to blurt that things _were_, in fact, much worse than his tone suggested. "He destroyed my wand," she seethed, still aching from the arduous thought of its absence, "and now he's insisted that we're leaving."

"What? No," Harry said, finally grasping her urgency. "You can't go, not until he's—"

"I don't have a choice," she snapped, impatient with Harry's reasonable but thoroughly inconvenient demands for Draco's immediate death. "He's taking me, we're leaving, and that's that. I just want to know that I can reach you, should it come to that. Have you ever tried going outside?" she pressed him, and Harry blinked, obviously never having considered testing the castle's boundaries before. "Is it just Hogwarts itself that's a mirror, or are we in an entirely reflected world?"

"I… I don't know," he admitted slowly, sounding rather deflated to not have thought of it before. "I've never tried it, but—"

"Give me the book, then," Hermione said, snatching it from him. All attempts at protocol had gone out the window by then, and anyway, as her brain helpfully reminded her, she _was_ queen. (Amazing how easily that seemed to be a fact of relevance; no wonder Draco was so viciously intolerable about his title.) "You said there were other theories about what the stone could do, didn't you?"

"Well, yes," Harry said, attempting to show her the page he'd been reading until she swatted his hand away, searching for herself. "There are some who believe the stone has a powerful summoning charm—"

"_While Beedle's account suggests the Resurrection Stone existed to produce ghosts, or imprints left by the dead,_" Hermione read aloud, "_some scholars have drawn from plausible experimentation at the time of the stone's creation to speculate that it may be capable of summoning forth magic from other realms of consciousness—_ that's it," she exclaimed, glancing up so sharply she nearly knocked her forehead into Harry's jaw. "If this is actually the stone, then maybe I can use it to summon another entrance into this… _realm_, I suppose, or whatever it is that the castle managed to create within itself—"

"But if you intend to go back and forth, then we'd still have to be where you are in order to reach you," Harry said with a frown. "Wouldn't we? Assuming there are other entrances at all, which is a rather considerable if."

"What's going on?" asked Neville, poking his head up from one of the lower floors.

Unfortunately, Hermione didn't have time to test her theory, nor was she able to explain it to Neville.

"Surely Draco plans to return directly to the palace," she speculated, chewing her lip. She, unfortunately, had never been outside of Hogwarts in the wizarding world, and couldn't even begin to guess how others traveled within it. She wished she had thought to ask Ginny before. "Would he apparate?"

"Most likely not," Harry said, frowning. "He can't apparate from Hogwarts, so—"

"He'd probably take a portkey from the village to the palace," Ron called down thoughtfully from somewhere above their heads. "Isn't there a lord ceremoniously assigned to arranging the king's travel? Someone in the peerage, I assume."

"Yes. It's Lord Nott," Harry said elusively, not particularly looking at any of them. "Theo's father."

"Harry," Neville warned in a low voice, approaching them on the stairs. "Don't."

Hermione, who was rapidly running out of time, couldn't bring herself to care about any of this. She returned Harry's attention to the plan, which was half-formulated at best.

"If it's possible to leave here, then go straightaway to the palace," she told him. "I'll see if I can find a way to get the ring to work from there."

"And if it doesn't?" Harry asked, frowning in thought.

"Then it doesn't," Hermione snapped, "but it's better than doing nothing."

"I don't know," Neville said, uneasy now. "This door only appeared to me when I needed it, and same with Harry and Ron. If it _does_ extend in any way outside this castle, who's to say whether we can use it?"

It was all a massive gamble, and for a moment, Hermione nearly said so; she nearly caved and shrunk, and murmuring something about fear and her probable impending demise.

Luckily she was made of firmer stuff than that, even if these silly men weren't. Risks were risks, boys, she nearly said, but it wasn't as if they were leaping to protect her, were they? She was the one taking on most of the risk.

"Go to the palace," she instructed Harry again, drawing her shoulders back so that even a Duke-Lord-whatever couldn't question her resolve. "I'll take it from there."

She was the one who'd promised Draco she'd stop him when she agreed to the marriage. The others could help, or they could sit back and watch her do it herself—up to them. Either way, she had other things to attend to, so she whirled on her heel and left, returning to her demonic husband's empty bed.

* * *

The first thing Hermione noticed upon her return was that the royal chambers were now immaculate, returned to their original state of grandeur and left to gleam in the rosy light of day.

The second thing was that she wasn't alone.

"Darling wife," drawled Draco, materializing behind her and causing her to leap half a foot in the air. "I see you've returned; how perfectly magnificent. You're familiar with Lady Pansy and Lady Daphne?" he said, gesturing to the two women who were currently staring at Hermione with obvious skepticism. "You two will have heard of my seraphic fawn by now, I imagine," he commented to them, which was apparently intended to reference Hermione.

She scowled at him.

"Well, mustn't let my ardent devotions take up too much of your valuable grooming time," Draco said disinterestedly. "Might I presume the two of you capable of taking it from here?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," said Pansy and Daphne, both curtseying.

"But I thought," Hermione began, and cleared her throat, turning to Draco. "I thought you said we wouldn't be taking on any ladies-in-waiting until we arrived at the palace? Husband," she added, with as much zeal as she could summon.

The last thing she wanted was for someone to watch her closely while she searched around for a way to escape through the walls; particularly not the two someones whom she had recently, and quite controversially, displaced from consideration for the throne.

"I changed my mind," said Draco, which seemed to indicate that he, on the other hand, had found the thought of unceasing oversight to be a rather magnificent idea. "Anything else?"

Yes, absolutely, and it was this: She wouldn't hesitate to kill him this time. She would have to do it with her bare hands, probably, but Draco seemed to be in the process of earning a little more of his own death each minute that she stood in his presence.

"No," she said tightly, "that's all."

"What an absolute treat," remarked Draco, before sauntering toward the door. "I will be waiting in the Great Hall, then. Goodbye," he said, disappearing into the corridor without so much as a backwards glance.

Hermione, now left alone with Daphne and Pansy, waited as each of them offered her a curtsey. "Your Majesty," Daphne said. "Is there anything in particular you'd like to wear today?"

Seeing as she hadn't taken off her wedding gown or gone to sleep at all the previous night, Hermione felt Daphne was either exceptionally polite or exceptionally blind not to mention it.

"I don't have any other dresses," Hermione said.

"Obviously," Pansy muttered under her breath. So she was the less polite of the two, then, or had fewer problems with her vision. Hermione suspected her of the former, having no real reason to think otherwise. As far as she had ever known, the two women were lovely, interchangeable features at court; one light, one dark, and neither particularly thrilled to be here now.

"Still, the fact remains, Your Majesty, that it's our j-" Daphne stopped. "Our honor," she corrected herself stiffly, "to see to it that you look presentable for your journey."

"Will it be a portkey?" Hermione asked.

"Yes," said Pansy, as if she resented having to start her morning with stupid questions. "His Majesty dislikes travel by apparition, nor does he have the patience to travel by coach."

It went without saying that Draco didn't have the patience for much at all. "Do you know His Majesty well?" asked Hermione, wondering whether she could gauge their loyalty to him by their answer (or, more likely, their allegiance to his rank, his good looks, or his money).

"Do we know him well? Yes," Daphne said. "Intimately, no." Then, catching her questionable phrasing, she amended, "We know of His Majesty's _preferences_, of course. He has a reputation for being—"

"More discriminating than this," said Pansy, with a doubtful glance at Hermione.

"—particular," Daphne finished, forcing a smile that somehow managed to also be a warning glare at Pansy. "He has his preferred comforts, as did his father, King Lucius. As favored courtiers, we are granted the privilege of familiarity with his tastes."

Hermione sighed inwardly, doubting it was worth pretending they couldn't collectively see what was in front of them.

"You two are assigned to spy on me, aren't you?" she asked bluntly. "He knows perfectly well I can dress myself, so he must have asked you here for something else. To keep an eye on me?"

"No, of course not," gasped Daphne, in the same moment Pansy muttered distastefully, "'Spy' is such an unflattering word."

"It's really no surprise to us that His Majesty would ask us to aid you," Daphne assured Hermione quickly, glaring at Pansy openly this time. "King Draco merely wishes us to see to your… comforts."

To see to her activities, more like. Hermione turned to Pansy, hoping she'd be a bit more upfront about her agenda. "And what is it you think His Majesty hopes to discover, Lady Pansy?"

Pansy gave her a blank look. "To be frank, Your Majesty," she said with palpable displeasure, "I would hardly think it appropriate to speculate."

Well. Clearly Pansy disliked her, and probably Daphne did, too, albeit more quietly. Hermione had been their challenger; she was the reason it wasn't one of them on the throne, and surely their fathers had not thanked them for their failure.

Pity, that. Hermione certainly couldn't tell them why they were lucky it hadn't been them, so Pansy in particular would surely watch her like a hawk, if only to report back on any wrongdoing and gain a more favorable position. She seemed like the type of girl, as Ginny had said, to take her revenge on anyone who'd done her wrong; maybe Pansy even hoped to Anne Boleyn her way into the situation. If that were the case, she was welcome to have Draco, as far as Hermione was concerned. It seemed a rather pointless endeavor unless, aptly, Pansy planned to be next in a string of dead wives.

"Well, I don't know what I'm expected to wear," Hermione sighed, as at least four elves came forward, all sharing the duties of holding up garments for Hermione's choosing.

"We'll help," offered Daphne encouragingly.

"Not the yellow. It'll look positively garish with your coloring," said Pansy, in exactly the opposite tone.

Several hair charms, countless beauty enchantments, a hoop skirt, a corset, what felt like fifty pounds of brocaded silks, an enormous quilted petticoat, and a full hour later, Hermione was struggling out of the royal chambers, making her way in a slow procession to the Great Hall. It was exceedingly difficult; more than once, Hermione had to stop to catch her breath, leaving Pansy and Daphne to give her looks of disapproval each time she paused on the stairs.

"Sorry," she wheezed, wishing her ribs could expand even _slightly_ more. Whoever had invented fashion was clearly desperate for some sort of mass genocide against noblewomen; she wished they'd all violently revolted before she herself had been forced into the bones and pads of their restrictive ranks, unable to run for her life even if she thought flight would work. "One moment—"

"Father, please," came a panicked voice from one of the lower floors. Like in the mirrored version of the castle, Hermione's location in the stairwell was inadvertently advantageous; particularly when she recognized the voice. "There's no place for me there, and he hasn't asked for me, either—"

"I've heard enough, Theodore. You cannot simply remain in the castle and sulk. You will join us at court," snapped the elder voice, which must have been Lord Nott. "It's time to put aside whatever childish fixation you have with this godforsaken school and do as you're told."

"But—"

"I said _enough_," Nott spat. "Or aren't you hearing me? This has gone long enough, Theodore, and it's high time that—"

"Your Majesty," interrupted another voice, startling Hermione so thoroughly she nearly toppled over the stairway railing. "Might I wish you a safe journey back to the palace before you depart?"

Hermione glanced at Dumbledore, feeling Pansy stiffen beside her.

"Ah, Lady Pansy," Dumbledore said, "Lady Daphne. A pleasure."

There was no doubt in Hermione's mind that this occurrence was noteworthy enough that Pansy would tell Draco about it, and that was assuming Daphne wasn't twice as conniving for being the more appealing of the two.

"Minister," Hermione said quickly, "I wanted to thank you for your welcome. I will certainly make a note of your kindness," she added, attempting to be furtive, "in the event we encounter each other again in the future."

"I'd be very happy to be available for Your Majesty's convenience, should you ever require my assistance," said Dumbledore, which Hermione hoped the other two women would not read into too intently. "I am, as always, His Majesty's loyal servant."

He was practiced at diplomacy, or duplicity. Either way, Hermione nodded quickly.

"Until next time, Minister," she said.

Next time, when she would have either killed her husband or turned him over to the Ministry with indisputable proof of his possession. Next time, when she could be of more use than a girl without a wand who had been bullied unwillingly into marriage. Next time, when she would walk back into this castle and insist on the life she deserved: unburdened, unbidden, and unbroken.

Next time, she would speak her mind, and Draco would be sorry he had ever tried to silence her. Encouraged by the thought, Hermione lifted her chin and took a steady step down the stairs, leading her reluctant ladies onwards to the hell that her fury would bring.

* * *

Draco was in a hurry to leave. He disliked the castle, finding it to be cold and unwelcoming. In the palace, at least, he could have his usual rooms; his books, his journals, his secluded gardens, his private thoughts. He could disappear and be left alone. Here, it was Your Majesty this and Your Majesty that; people constantly oppressing him with insipid flattery or unceasing concerns. Your Majesty, have you thought about which courtiers you plan to name to your privy council? Have you considered the growing power of the lords presiding over the Ministry? Your Majesty, does the apocalyptic state of the world not concern you? Your Majesty, can you be troubled to give a damn?

Setting aside the bloodthirsty demon who occupied his head, Draco had a variety of problems without anyone adding to the list. He wasn't remotely ready to be king; certainly not to be a good one. He was discovering, day by day, that his father hadn't been a particularly good one, either, and while that was perhaps unsurprising, it wasn't especially reassuring. The palace was heavily in debt, for one thing, and the Minister for Magic was clearly up to something, for another. Revolution seemed to be a constant threat these days, and his father's notes seemed to indicate things had been that way for some time. What was the point of being king if people could simply arm themselves and pluck him from his throne?

But they wouldn't, of course. Because of the demon.

Right.

Draco wished he could ask Theo for advice, though that was obviously out of the question. He might have considered asking Hermione for her dazzling opinions, too, except she had already tried to kill him once, and he hadn't really cared for the sensation. Besides, she was taking to being queen much better than he had taken to being king, and he found the whole thing entirely disenchanting. People had lined the way from the castle to the village of Hogsmeade just to get a glimpse of her, crying when she touched their hands, and she seemed genuinely taken aback by it; appreciative and warm, even benevolent. Like a saint.

The whole thing turned his stomach.

Not that he wanted people to like him, obviously. He already grasped that they didn't. He knew perfectly well Pansy and Daphne had been relieved they did not have to marry him; he could see it in their eyes, especially Pansy's. She had looked at him with something close to hatred, though it was probably just revulsion. It just seemed very outrageous, in his opinion, that darling Hermione could wander around being genuinely baffled by public affection and everyone would wail and cheer, and meanwhile here _he_ was, perfectly handsome and trying his almighty best, and all he got was a perfunctory bow and some jittery edging away, as if he might bite them.

Of course, there was no telling whether he would or not, given the demon; but again, the whole thing just seemed spectacularly unfair.

"They love her," Draco muttered to himself, having observed the cries of _Beautiful Hermione!_ and _God Save the Queen!_ with agitation. What preposterous drivel! Didn't they know what she was? At the very least, they all seemed to have eyes. "It's absolutely bewildering."

_Don't be petty_, advised the demon, which had quite a lot of nerve, all things considered. _The mob can turn quickly enough, princelet. Public opinion is a fickle thing._

"But it's not just them," Draco protested, thinking of the way the spinster professor had tearfully torn herself from Hermione, who wasn't even blood. Even the castle poltergeist had looked despondent to see her go, wailing melodically and dropping books on people's heads in a funereal spectral procession.

The only person Draco could think of who had ever been sorry to see his back had been his mother, and that was mostly a memory at this point. He might have imagined it, given the look on her face at the end, so perhaps he was mistaken that she had ever held him like that. Either way, he couldn't remember the last time anyone had felt safe enough to willingly stand within arm's reach of him.

"People love her," Draco repeated, and then, "It's absurd."

_Love is a very human emotion. A nauseating one, in my view. _

"Well, on the bright side, neither of us will have to suffer it anytime soon," commented Draco, glancing out over the manicured lawn. The weather was grey and morbid, which felt appropriate. Gloom always suited the features of the palace; against cloudless skies, it became too garishly glittering. "I, for one, cannot imagine my venomous little sunspot will ever warm to me, nor I to her."

_Speaking of your bride, where is she? I'm eager to get started._

How deliciously revolting.

"Admiring her new rooms, I imagine," Draco said. Seeing as luminous Hermione had never lived in luxury before, she might at least appreciate him for his excellent taste. The palace was exceptionally opulent, and in the wing he'd had the elves clear out for her (easy enough, since their former occupant was long dead), Hermione would have access to all his mother's things—at least for the next hour or so, while she still had a neck and ears to wear them. "Lady Pansy and Lady Daphne have their instructions to keep an eye on her."

_You expect two silly girls to keep her from escaping?_

"She has no wand," Draco pointed out, not bothering to mention that Hermione herself was probably no less silly a girl than the other two. After all, she had put on the ring, hadn't she? That was by far the silliest thing Draco could think of to do, and she had already done it. "She can't apparate from here even if she found one, she can't escape on foot without alerting the guards, and she doesn't know the palace well enough to hide herself inside it. What could she possibly do?"

_You had better be right about that._

Ominous. Splendid! Life persisted as it always did: a thrilling series of impending defeats.

"Well, I'll just go and find her now, O Venerable Shade," Draco said, "if you're so eager," and took off through the corridors, finding there was nothing better to do, anyway. It was either this or solving the kingdom's debt problem; _that _could only be done by holding fewer lavish balls for his courtiers, which unfortunately could not be done _at all_ or there would be pitchforks for sure. Draco was positive Lord Parkinson would skewer him with a hot poker if he even suggested the man set down his wine.

It was a very lose-lose thing, kingship. But, better to have a lovely dead wife than a lovely soon-to-be dead one, wasn't it? No reason to procrastinate. Why put off 'till after dinner what could be done before afternoon tea?

The servants and elves scurried away as he passed, ducking into rooms and disappearing. It was convenient, really, their timely removal of themselves from his path, and entirely expected behavior, too. Not for other kings, presumably, owing to their lack of demons, but by then, Draco was not known for taking bad news particularly well, and palace news was very often abysmal.

Hermione's chambers were adjacent to his; still, it was a dreary business of wandering through her entrance chamber and her drawing room and whatever this room was for lady things and finally reaching her private rooms, where he rapped three times on the door.

It opened, as doors tended to do when he knocked.

"Your Majesty?" asked Pansy.

She, he noted, did not look him in the eye. He supposed he might have snapped at her at some point, or otherwise threatened her with a blood-curdling voice and a set of slitted red eyes.

"Is the queen available?" Draco prompted, indicating his intent to enter.

Pansy stepped obediently to one side.

"Her Majesty just stepped out for a moment," Pansy said placidly, as Daphne rose to her feet from where she'd been sitting beside the fire. "She'll be right out, I'm sure."

Oh, no, Draco sighed internally.

Oh, no, no, no.

"I want to see her now," he said, feeling the unsettled pricking in his mind that meant that something inside him was displeased, and it wasn't his digestion. "Fetch her, or I'll do it myself."

"Your Majesty, a lady's privy chamber is a very delicate matter," demurred Daphne, who also did not look him in the eye. Pity he'd done whatever he had to frighten her off; she was a pretty thing. The sort of woman you'd want to put jewels on, just to watch them flash in the light. "If you'll wait just a moment," Daphne said apprehensively, before disappearing into Hermione's inner chambers.

_WHERE IS SHE?_

_She couldn't have escaped,_ Draco informed the demon silently, trying to calm the searing sensations in his thoughts. _There is only one exit, and it's this one. There is nowhere she could have gone._

He tried not to think about the ring she wore on her finger, or about the fact that she'd already disappeared where there had been no exits before. It was never especially helpful to provide the demon with information it might be better suited to forget.

"Your Majesty." Unfortunately, Daphne's face, once she reappeared, was so pale he could have lost sight of her amid the ivory damask walls. "You must forgive me."

The inside of his head grew so sharp with pain he thought for certain he would die from the pressure of it.

He didn't, of course. He never did.

_FIND HER! _the demon screamed.

But Draco already knew he wouldn't. Not until she wanted to be found.

What a dastardly little queen she was.

"Lady Daphne, Lady Pansy," Draco said, feeling the swelling in his joints that told him he was about to lose what little control he still possessed, "perhaps you might consider leaving me to my privacy for a few hours."

They both set off at a run, though he wished he'd had time to suggest they send an elf.

After all, someone was going to need to clean up the mess.

* * *

_**a/n: **__The playlist for this fic is in good shape so far, so I should be posting it sometime soon. For my ever beloved tootsie roll 101, winterberrytrillium (mostly for 'human?' which made me lol), and alpr15, a cherished delight. Thank you for reading! Hope you are enjoying._


	5. Bolt From the Blue

**Chapter 5: Bolt From the Blue**

There is absolutely no way Lady Vengeance could have managed to accidentally open some secret portal to a mirror-world inside Hogwarts. Hogwarts! A school that has been populated by thousands of students! Hundreds of thousands! Over hundreds of years! It simply isn't plausible that everyone could have missed the presence of an entire new dimension. A room, maybe (you've certainly heard rumors of that happening, all of which vary so wildly they must contain some bizarre bud of truth) but an entire reflected _realm_? Surely even Grandmother must be aware that reality has its limits—

"Aware? Yes," says your grandmother. "But in general I find the concept of limits rather restricting."

—and that's not even to mention the Deathly Hallows, which are as much a child's fairy tale as this one!

"This is certainly not a tale for children," your grandmother scolds you, theatrically aghast. "Do you think I would tell this story to a child? Petal, do compose yourself, you've come unhinged."

Well, she has a point there. Not about you needing to compose yourself (you are famously composed; it is one of your top three defining features according to anyone whose opinion has any merit whatsoever) but about the fact that this is not her typical fairy story. After all, there is a demon in this one. And forced marriage.

And… murder, possibly?

"Oh, very much murder," your grandmother confirms. "Some more effective than others."

That's absurd. How many deaths can a person have?

"We all die a little each day, in our way," your grandmother says. "Our beliefs live and die, our passions spring up and dry out. Our loves, our loyalties; they take a blade to the neck so often I daresay we all have a bit of blood on our hands, don't we? In fact, we're so dreadfully encumbered by death it is a mystery how we carry on from day to day." She takes a sip of tea, frowning into nothing. "What were we saying?"

Murder, you say exhaustedly.

"Ah yes," your grandmother says, perking up at the thought of it. "Though, if it turns your stomach, dear, we need not focus on the gruesome details."

Not that you're any more convinced of all this than before, but it takes a lot more than that to turn your stomach. You've got rather a tough constitution.

"I know, petal. Not to be unnecessarily self-congratulatory," your grandmother murmurs, half-smiling, "but I personally saw to your inheritance of that rather a long time ago."

* * *

_**The Golden Age of King Draco I, 1725  
**__Malfoy Palace, Wiltshire, England  
Ten Months Before The Fall_

There were multiple palaces—including the one in London, which was adjacent to Kensington Palace and therefore close to the Ministry—but where it came to the young king's comforts, Draco was rather insistent on his personal specifications. He was keenly uninterested in being anywhere other than his childhood home, and though Hermione didn't especially care for her occupation of his (probably murdered) mother's rooms, she grew to mind it less and less.

Primarily because she spent very little time there.

"Oh good, you're all here," Hermione said, whirling breathlessly into the mirror-image of the room she'd just escaped to find Harry, Neville, and Ron all looking up from their books. Today, she'd used the mirror above the mantle in the palace's northwest library, seeing as she was laden down with the material she had recently nicked. The pile tumbled freely from her arms, landing on the wooden table with a thunk. "These are all the magical texts I could find covering supernatural experimentation during the Glorious Revolution. Was there anything else you needed?"

"No, no, this should be fine," said Harry, reaching over for one of the exposed covers. Hermione, rightfully, slapped his hand away.

"I was being sarcastic," she informed him, "as there are quite a lot of things that I, the person currently married to a homicidal demon, need rather immediately. None of which you've been particularly helpful with," she added with as punishing a glare as she could summon, though she expected they were immune by now. "In case you've forgotten, it's been nearly two weeks of me darting off whenever I'm expected to be alone with Draco. I can't keep this up forever!"

They blinked at her, sympathetic, but the point was this: Every time she disappeared for the night, she returned in the morning to find at least one entire chamber smoldering with flame, shredded to bits, or otherwise steeped in ruin, all with the implication that she would soon be next. The practicality of her current plan was, needless to say, supremely unsustainable.

There were glimpses of optimism. Primarily, Hermione had discovered upon transport to the palace that, as she predicted—or, rather, as she desperately hoped—the ring could, indeed, summon an entrance to the very same reflective realm it had previously produced inside the castle. By week's end, she learned any reflective surface would do it; once, when spotting Draco stalking towards her in the garden, Hermione had dived into one of the fountains, surfacing with a gasp on the other side to find she wasn't even wet. Whatever specific kind of magic the ring had, it certainly had a lot of it. (Whether or not it was Hallowed remained up for spirited debate.)

Every day since the first had been a highly taxing gamble, shrouded in so much luxury that Hermione was starting to resent the interplay of wealth and danger. The palace was, surprise surprise, palatially grand; she had always considered Hogwarts the most majestic building ever constructed, never to be surpassed, but objectively, the palace put it to shame in nearly every sense. It was golden, opulent. Like Draco, it practically gleamed with finery. It buzzed with magic, alive with it. The rooms were gilded with ornamentation, the walls covered with stunning landscapes and beautiful tapestries; the kitchens produced the most decadent food she'd ever tasted, and the many libraries were positively overflowing with books.

Truthfully, Hermione might have loved the palace if it did not remind her so thoroughly of its master, who was so unbearable she might have killed him whether he contained a demon or not. As her husband, Draco had an unquestioned right to summon her to his chambers, or to enter hers, whenever he wished; Hermione, on the other hand, had no reciprocal opportunity to refuse him. Each night, she appeared in his ceremonial entry rooms long enough that all his guards saw her enter; each morning, she stepped back through one of his many looking glasses to find him drained from the damage he'd caused in anger while she was gone.

Just before breakfast, she would slip through the doors and reappear in his ceremonial entry chamber, where Daphne and Pansy would be waiting. "Good morning," Hermione would say, carefully concealing the wreckage behind her, and her two ladies-in-waiting would bow.

"Good morning, Your Majesty," they would reply in twin tones of dulcet duty, and then they would all return at once to her chambers.

To the great many courtiers who lived in the palace, the king and queen appeared to have an exceptional fondness for each other. They sat side by side at every elaborate dinner engagement, which seemed to occur each night; the king, virile as he was, publicly requested her presence in his bed every evening. Speculation seemed to be that however unpleasant a choice Hermione had been to begin with, it would be quite unfashionable now to criticize her. No one seemed to notice that, in fact, king and queen were locked in a war neither were fully able to win.

By the end of the second week, Hermione had tried five times to kill Draco without a wand. She had procured a dagger, stolen from the armory, which he immediately spotted and disintegrated to sand upon her entry to his chambers. One morning, she held a shard from a broken window to his throat just before he opened his eyes and froze her in place, irritatedly melting her makeshift blade to a puddle. Once, having grown tired of her many attempts at weaponry, he'd preemptively spirited away her knife at dinner, leaving her to pick up her steak with both hands. That, while frustrating, had been amusing too, at least, as the other courtiers had noticed her unseemly manners and hurried to follow suit, thinking it a new royal trend to let juices dribble down their hands and onto the silk of their clothing. Draco had thrown his fork down in disgust, barking for Hermione to follow before sulking off to his rooms.

Was it helpful to have access to Harry, Neville, and Ron? Yes and no. Mostly no, though the hope remained that it would become yes if she tried hard enough. So far, the only rules she'd noticed with regards to the dimension they were currently sealed inside were the same for Hogwarts itself: no apparition, plus general laws of magic still applied. The three of them had taken brooms to reach the alternate version of the palace, and since the palace, unlike the castle, was not sentient, Hermione had to bring them things they needed.

Like books. Which they seemed to be making very little headway with.

"We need a _plan_," Hermione said in exasperation, not for the first time. "It's been two weeks! None of these miniature murder plots are helping—"

"Your resilience is commendable," said Ron helpfully. "One is bound to stick, don't you think?"

"Be that as it may," Hermione permitted, fighting annoyance, "I think we all have to agree that Draco and his demon are much more dangerous to me than I am to him. One of these days he's going to abandon ceremony and just kill me without the effort of decorum!" she said, fighting the urge to wail.

"That seems very unlike Draco," remarked Neville, which Hermione lamented with an internal sigh was a moderately valid point. "Though I suppose the urgency remains."

"Does Draco have any control over the demon?" she asked, hoping the others might have at least one helpful answer. "If he's never done any damage publicly, he must have some degree of autonomy, don't you think?"

"We can surmise as much, tentatively," Neville said, with indeed a great amount of tentativity.

"Voldemort has never revealed himself to any large groups that we know of," Harry confirmed. "We've only seen him individually, and the closest any of us have gotten to him was… Well, the point is," he amended hastily, not looking at either Neville or Ron, "you're right, Hermione. There must be _some_ separation between Voldemort and Draco himself; either Draco occasionally acts alone, or he exercises some control over Voldemort."

"Well, we need more than just a theory," Hermione said firmly. "And we certainly need something bigger than these petty assassination attempts, so someone had better have an idea, and soon."

Harry, the most likely to leap to rash action, immediately opened his mouth. "If we could just ask Th-"

"No," Neville said. He, Hermione had noticed, did not speak harshly to Harry (or to anyone) unless it was about to become an idea to include others in their plot. "We can't involve anyone else."

Harry shot to his feet in agitation. "But if we could just—"

"No, Harry." Ron was in agreement with Neville, albeit reluctantly so. "It's too dangerous."

"I understand that, but—"

"Look," Hermione cut in, tapping the toes of her expensive satin slippers that served no use at all. "I'm getting a bit tired of playing Draco's adoring queen, and in case you've forgotten, I haven't got a wand." She glared at them in continued displeasure about the last time they had each hesitated to give her theirs, muttering something about the likelihood of Draco making splinters of it. "Combined, we should be able to set an ambush of some sort, shouldn't we? He can see one of us coming, fine, but he can't see all four."

"Surely we should explore other avenues of murder first?" Neville suggested. "Poison, perhaps?"

Hermione, who was beginning to suspect Draco of being either too clever or too paranoid to fall for anything she could do covertly, gave a heavy sigh. She had watched him closely, hunting for weak spots in his security, but for such a spoiled prick, he trusted almost no one.

Still, there was no point arguing. "Fine, I'll poison him this evening, then." There was another ball, as there always was. "But in the event that fails—"

"I like the prospect of an ambush," announced Harry. "I think it feels right. We could find a way to lead him somewhere unprotected, and then Hermione can let us in. She's right, after all, that he might be able to stop one of us, but I doubt he can stop all four at once. One of us would succeed, at least."

Ron, who had turned a pale shade of green at the thought of being one of the three to fail, said unwillingly, "That's… true."

That was enough of a start for now. Hermione was concerned that Pansy and Daphne, who were constantly following her around, would be looking for her soon, and she certainly didn't want them figuring out where she was disappearing to and reporting back to Draco. What if the demon, Voldemort, somehow had the same capacity to travel through realms as the ring?

"Sort it out," Hermione instructed them. "You'd better have a plan by the time I come back this evening."

She turned away, maneuvering herself with difficulty back onto the mantle to open the hinge of the mirror she'd used to enter.

"A bit bossy, isn't she?" she heard Ron whisper to one of the others, and Hermione rolled her eyes, stepping back into the library and climbing unsteadily down.

"Your Majesty," said a bewildered Daphne, appearing just as she'd shut the mirror's portal behind her. "I've been looking for you for nearly half an hour. Whatever are you doing up there?"

If news got around that she'd been caught dismounting the library's mantle, Hermione fully expected 'palace climbing' to be deemed courtly recreation by supper.

"Nothing," she said, glancing around. "Though, if you're here, then where's—"

"Well, everything here looks perfectly in order," Pansy remarked as she strode into the library, glancing at Daphne and Hermione in annoyance. "His Majesty sent me to summon you," she informed Hermione, sparing her the most perfunctory of curtseys. "Shall I tell him you'll be along?"

Hermione glanced askance, spotting a heavy book and tucking it carefully under her arm. It would do in a pinch; human skulls were obscenely fragile, no matter what occupied them.

"Don't worry, Lady Pansy, I'm coming. Any chance either of you know where I can procure hemlock?" she asked, and then, after considering what plausible poisons might be lying around the palace, added, "Or doxy venom?"

"I'm sure one of the elves can get it for you," said Daphne. "Shall I fetch one?"

"No need," Hermione said, striding to the door with her two pretty shadows launching themselves after her. "I can do it myself."

* * *

Contrary to his dazzling wife's suspicions, Draco could certainly have murdered her by now if he'd really wanted to. Unfortunately, doing so at any point thus far would have meant leaving behind a great many witnesses; much to his dismay, being king encouraged a constant audience who rudely refused to leave him alone. More than once the demon had suggested they simply flay Hermione open at dinner, shattering her like a vase and sorting through the pieces for whatever interesting or viable organs remained, but Draco had been very clear that no, they mustn't harm her publicly, and certainly not while people were eating. It was one thing to be homicidal, but sanguinary? He simply would not tolerate a mess.

Besides, Draco had managed to make one (1) compelling point, which was that the more people found out about what he truly was (vs. the many who merely had Suspicions), the more they would conspire in earnest to bring him down. Powerful though the demon was, it still needed a body to rule legitimately. There had been no incorporeal demon kings, and as far as Draco knew, that was probably for good reason. The muggles had displaced King James II for believing in the correct God the incorrect way, so imagine what wizards would do if they knew some sort of ghastly hellhound had taken over their monarchy! Ultimately, that would be too much bloodletting for even the demon's insatiable tastes.

Thus, Draco was presently content to let enigmatic Hermione run around throughout the day if she desired to do so; it meant, at least, that she would not disrupt his solitude, though he was beginning to wish she would desist her beauteous scampering into the night. If there was one thing the demon couldn't abide, it was a mystery, and if there was one thing Draco couldn't abide—there were many things, but primarily this one—it was possessing a mystified demon. The temper tantrums were growing insurmountable; it left Draco exhausted, which then meant he found it difficult to concentrate during the meetings with his privy council.

"Your Majesty," said one of his courtiers. The elder Crabbe, or perhaps Goyle. "We are beginning to grow concerned about Dumbledore's influence on the lesser nobles."

"Worse yet, the common people," injected the other, who was either Goyle or Crabbe. "They are beginning to demand a voice!"

"There has been some talk of absconding to the colonies as well," added someone. Nott, perhaps. His voice always lulled Draco to sleep. "Though, given the events of Salem, I say by all means, go to it if you wish."

"That's not the point," said… balls. Who was that? Perhaps Rosier, or Rowle. "The point is Dumbledore gains momentum every day, calling for oversight on the monarchy's expenditures and claiming the kingdom's wealth should somehow belong to the lower class. As if the nobility has not been preordained the keepers of magic!"

"Dumbledore is not even Sacred Twenty-Eight," contributed Greengrass sagely. "I fear it was a grave mistake to allow his selection as Minister."

"It's not too late," said Parkinson. "Dumbledore could be easily recalled. In fact, with all this incitement, we can only assume his ultimate intent is treason against the crown, can't we? Thus His Majesty would be well within his rights for sentencing, or at very least arrest."

There was a brief swivel of heads to Draco, who was staring out the window. He noticed the evidence of motion, however, and turned to face his waiting council.

"You want me to have Dumbledore killed?" he said, sounding bored even to himself.

There was a chorus of mumbled demurral; _certainly not, Your Majesty misunderstands, we merely hope to protect your interests, we wouldn't dream of executing a fellow noble_. In short: yes, do it, but for heaven's sake, don't tell anyone it was our idea.

There was a small prickle of displeasure in his head.

_This drudgery again?_

_Excellent, you're back,_ thought Draco. _Wouldn't you like to have one of these ravishing courtiers as a marvelous hors d'oeuvre in advance of decadent Hermione this evening?_

_I've asked you several times not to discuss matters of my consumption, princelet. Once again, I do not eat them. _

"Your Majesty?" asked Parkinson, as Draco blinked, realizing they were waiting for him to speak.

What a splendid chore. What thoroughly enticing nonsense.

"Here's a thought," said Draco. "Why don't we open up some of the other palaces and start some sort of trade school? Or a hospital, or an orphanage, or whatever it is these people seem to think they need. We ought to cancel a few of these balls; do we need more than one per month? Candidly, one a year would be more than enough, and on a related note, you're very welcome to leave and go back to your manor houses whenever you like. Don't you all have peons of your own to feed?"

There was a brief, dull blow of silence.

"Joking," Draco said. "Joking, My Lords, of course." He rose to his feet. "What was it… kill Dumbledore, you said? I'm sure that's doable. Someone bring me a list of his crimes and we'll have him executed straightaway. Actually," he said, reconsidering upon the unfortunate recollection that he would have to _read_ said list of crimes and then, presumably, _act _upon it, "I've changed my mind. Bring the list of Dumbledore's crimes to the queen."

"The… queen?" echoed Greengrass, blinking in confusion.

"Yes, the queen. About this tall? Abysmal hair," clarified Draco, gesturing. "You'll know it's her by the crown, the jewels, her general air of pulchritude, et cetera. Anyway," he continued listlessly, aiming himself for the door, "I'm sure she'll know precisely what to do about all this beastly treason and whatnot. Now, if that's all—"

"Your Majesty, if I may," began maybe-Rowle, and Draco spun on his heel with a sigh.

"You may not," he said crisply. "Will I see everyone this evening, then? After all, you do seem to have every intention to profit off my wealth. That _was_ the purpose of this, wasn't it?"

He left while everybody remained too stunned to speak. A blissful silence, confusion.

The demon, however, had notes. _You don't actually expect her to sentence Dumbledore to death, do you?_

"Certainly not," Draco said, nodding to an elf that went scuttling into an empty drawing room. "I expect her to make a large fuss about the morality of my decision. There are, after all, more ways to summon someone's presence than outright demand."

He knew his effervescent wife, even if he wasn't particularly charmed by her. The woeful plights of others sustained her. She had a taste for outrage, and her choices would be to let the blithering nobles prosecute a man who'd 'done nothing wrong' (outside of exist, annoyingly, though Draco doubted she would see it that way) or to personally confront him with her displeasure.

Even knowing it would risk her death, Draco suspected she would do it. She was so superbly reliable that way, and anyway, she was getting altogether too popular. Somehow, despite the eccentricity of her common birth and the complete lack of exquisiteness in her features, people were slowly coming around to adoring her. Let her make the mistake, then, if she was going to make one. It seemed inevitable that someone would be displeased by whatever the monarchy did, whether it be the nobles or the mob, so let them take it up with her instead. If she found it an inconvenience, fine. She would probably be dead soon, in which case she would not have to worry about it, or anything, any further.

And to think people did not consider Draco to be gracious.

_I grow tired of not having her,_ the demon remarked broodily. _She is beginning to irk me._

"Well, I warned you she was irksome, didn't I?" said Draco. "But you didn't listen."

There was a sharp jab to his frontal lobe.

"You're the one who loses her," Draco pointed out, which was bordering on insolent, but he tried to phrase it as a fact, which it was. "I'm simply pointing out that my captivating little wife is not afraid of me—she's afraid of _you_. Perhaps if you let me handle it, you might have an easier time catching her before she can run."

_And what do you propose, then?_

"Give me some time alone with her," Draco suggested. "If she gets comfortable, she might make a mistake. I'd be able to find out where she goes."

_I don't care where she goes. I want her. It should not be complicated._

"It shouldn't be," Draco agreed. "And yet…"

There was a moment of tension as the demon considered it.

_Fine. A full moon would be ideal for any necessary rituals. The next is in three days time—you have until then._

Draco flexed his fingers, curling and uncurling them.

There were downsides, of course. "I do not expect to enjoy this," he said, thinking again of charitable Hermione's teeming antipathy towards him.

_Better that you don't,_ the demon agreed, giving Draco's thoughts an affectionate stroke. _You're already so fragile, princelet. Try not to get attached again, hm?_

An excellent point. Luckily Draco was fairly confident that Hermione would prove to be, as she always was, her divinely bothersome self. He whistled a little as he walked, certain at least of one thing: attachment was out of the question.

* * *

Draco took one look at the goblet on the floating tray beside him before pursing his lips in displeasure, vanishing it with a wave of his hand.

"Nice try, my savage heartstring," he said in an undertone, giving Hermione a sidelong glance of something that was neither anger nor dismay, but simply a bristle of disappointment. "Poison, really? You can't honestly think I'd have the indecency to drop dead while frothing up bile, choking on my own tongue." He made a face, shuddering. "Barbaric, even for you. Run me through cleanly, at least. Give me the dignity of retaining my bodily functions to the last."

Hermione sighed internally, declining to answer. It was another excessive ball in a series of excessive balls, though, per usual, Draco did not appear to be enjoying himself. She was hardly enjoying it, either. Pansy and Daphne had selected a gold gown that made her look like an absolute idiot. Women like her were meant to be in normal clothes, not dripping in wealth. She could hardly even look at herself without feeling she ought to be charged with some sort of Vatican crime of gluttony, sentenced to burn in the bonfire of the vanities.

Draco, on the other hand, was dressed in a burgundy velvet so drenched in saturation it looked richly black, except in certain lights. His hair was smoothed away from his face this evening, but the gold of his curls still glinted from the flickering torches, winking at Hermione like a particularly devilish joke. It appeared Draco simply refused to wear wigs, ever, whether they were considered fashionable or not. He was rather unapologetically himself, always dressing and styling himself as he pleased, which infuriated Hermione. He wore the persona of King Draco more effortlessly than she had ever worn anything at all, and certainly better than she wore this gown.

"How did you even know it was poisoned?" she said irritably, gesturing to the vanished goblet. "It's tasteless, no smell—"

"Some things," he said, "you simply don't want to know about, my everloving star."

Her mouth tightened.

"Your nobles came to me with a list of Dumbledore's alleged crimes," she informed him, abruptly changing the subject. "Did you have something to do with that?"

"No, he committed those crimes alone, I'm sure," Draco said. "Or, at least, he did not invite me to participate."

"I—" Even without a demon, the man was jaw-clenchingly unbearable, staging little mutinies wherever he could. "I meant the list, Draco. Why did they bring it to me in the first place?"

"Hm? Ah, perhaps because I put you in charge of it," Draco said, appearing to find nothing at all wrong with that statement. "Personally I find the whole business revolting, but seeing as you seem to love and aspire to revolt, beloved of my soul, I simply could not resist."

Two passing courtiers bowed to Hermione and Draco, who nodded in reply. Then the courtiers continued walking, leaning in to speak more privately for what was almost certainly exaggerated gossip.

"You can't just have Dumbledore killed for _incitement_," Hermione warned Draco under her breath. "He isn't inciting anyone! He's just telling people their rights, not prompting them to violence."

"Oh, is he? Well, thank heavens that's sorted," Draco said. "Be sure to tell Parkinson that, he'll love it. You know what? Tell all of them together, actually, it'll be fun—"

"You have no real control over them, do you?" Hermione asked tightly. "Look at those two," she added, gesturing to the men who'd just walked by. "I guarantee they're complaining about something."

"I'm sure they are," Draco agreed. "Full of complaints, the privileged. I'm surprised you haven't noticed it yourself, my cherished flower," he added with a sidelong glance at her. "Though you don't appear to have taken all that successfully to royalty, my pet."

She bristled, ignoring the slight. "This is why you made the deal, isn't it? Because even the monarchy is beholden to something. You didn't have enough power on your own." She watched Draco stiffen, his knuckles going slightly white. "Granted, you were clearly a precocious prince," she said, adding in a bit of her own mockery, "considering how young you must have been to accept the offer. I suppose I should give you credit for your perception."

For a moment, Draco said nothing.

Then, "You should have noticed I don't drink during these things."

It was such a tangential remark that she couldn't understand what had possessed him to say it. "What?"

"I drink one glass of wine with dinner, and that's all," Draco said bluntly. "I never imbibe any further beyond that. I didn't have to know the glass was poisoned to know not to drink it," he said, turning to her with a solemnity that nearly made her shudder. "You can't honestly think you're the first person who's tried to kill me before, can you?"

He was speaking in a low voice, intimately. Trying to intimidate her, and she glared at him.

He smiled thinly back.

"You seem to have sorted it out by now about my… unfortunate little habit," he said. "You should know that it doesn't permit any other bad habits to coexist alongside it. I am not permitted to drink in excess, nor am I allowed to consume any mind-altering potions."

It was the first time they were speaking directly about Voldemort.

She frowned. "Is it not… isn't it—?"

"Listening? No, not currently," Draco said. "It finds me exceptionally boring, most of the time. Provided I do not allow myself to become agitated or otherwise emotional, it does other things."

"Like what?"

"I haven't the slightest idea, my treasured dewdrop," said Draco curtly. "I don't ask."

"But—" She stopped. "How is it you're not _allowed_ to do certain things, then?"

"It knows when I am being poisoned, I imagine, whether by alcohol or by more traditional lethalities. I assume it is very sensitive to the health of its container." He smiled grimly. "By which I do mean my body, yes."

"So," she began, and hesitated. "You've been poisoned before?"

He nodded. "Oh, several times. When I was four, by my nanny. Again when I was seven, by one of the maids. When I was thirteen, by my French tutor, and for the last time when I was fourteen. The last time was more of an overdose," he said, thoughtfully recounting it. "Luckily, my helpful little habit wrung out my intestines until every drop was gone, pulverized them all to dust, and then regrew a new set of organs."

He said it matter-of-factly, but Hermione was so sickened she could hardly open her mouth.

"Perhaps you've noticed some people seem to find me unpleasant," Draco commented drily. "Not everyone takes to the red eyes so thrillingly as you, you know. Very inconsiderate of them not to match your eternal generosity," he added as an afterthought, "but there we are."

"But wait—you were poisoned when you were… four?" Hermione managed to process aloud, blinking. "But that's impossible. Surely at four years old you couldn't have made a deal with a—"

She broke off, not sure 'demon' was something to remark in public, even if nobody was listening to them.

"Yes," Draco said. "I was much too young to have done such a thing, wasn't I?"

His gaze slid from hers to scour the room, narrowing when he spotted something.

"Well," he said. "I'll have to leave, I think. Don't bother joining me tonight," he added, turning slightly in her direction, though he was mostly speaking loftily to the air above her head. "I find I'm rather tired of your coquettish little games. Have a refreshing sleep, my sterling daydream," he advised, and departed on the clicks of his heels, leaving Hermione to frown in the direction he had been looking.

It was Theo standing across the room, much to her surprise. He stared moodily after Draco before plucking a goblet from a nearby floating tray, briefly catching Hermione's eye.

* * *

"Alright," Hermione said. "This is what we're going to do."

It had been Theo who had given her the idea. Neville and Ron might have had something against him knowing what they were up to, but Hermione had already come to understand a few things about Theo herself.

One, he almost certainly knew something about Draco. That was irrelevant; it just happened to be true.

Two, he had some connection to Draco that must have been significant at some point. Draco refused to look at him; Harry and the others avoided him. Hermione suspected this was for similar (if not precisely the same) reasons.

Three, Theo had a strange relationship with his father. What that was, she couldn't be sure, but she had heard enough to know that it was combative, possibly even toxic.

Four, and rather importantly, Theo's father, a sycophantic but unpleasant courtier, was in charge of something very specific: the king's travel by portkey.

"You," Hermione said, turning conclusively to Harry, "are going to forge a note."

"Me?" Harry said, frowning. "Why?"

"You're going to forge a note from Theo Nott to Draco," clarified Hermione, and before Neville could open his mouth to politely but firmly disagree, she went on, "Theo will have no part in this, of course. I will deliver it myself. Theo will invite Draco to his estate, and as a result, his father will have to arrange a portkey. Of course, I'll have to make sure Draco agrees—"

"He'll agree," Harry said, beginning to idly chew the cuticle of his left thumb. "He can't refuse a noble's invitation. It would be an insult to the Nott family, and the rest of his nobles wouldn't stand for it."

"Oh. Well, perfect," Hermione said, not having considered there might be archaic rules of nobility in place to aid her regicidal plot. "Once Draco accepts, I will sneak the three of you into the palace and you will tamper with the portkey. I'd do it myself, but I'm watched much too closely," she grumbled, thinking of how she'd nearly not gotten the chance to come until after Daphne had fallen asleep, still waiting for Hermione to remove herself from the bath. "Draco will arrive alone in a place where he does not control the wards or have any private security, and thus the three of you will have a chance to attack him the moment he arrives." She glanced around, checking that they were following. "Make sense?"

"You want us," Ron said slowly, gesturing to the three of them, "to tamper with a portkey?"

"It can't possibly be that hard," said Hermione. "Just duplicate whatever the object is and set up a different portkey."

"But we'll have to break into Nott's private rooms," said Neville worriedly. "Not to mention his estate, if that's where you intend for Draco to go."

"We won't have to break in," Harry said, at precisely the same moment Hermione had been about to tell them that of course not, they wouldn't have to set up the portkey to go to Nott Manor, that would be an outrageous choice. "I can get us in."

"I—" The reasons this was maybe a bad idea escaped her. What did it matter whether they unlawfully entered a noble's estate or not? They were free to kill Draco wherever they liked, so long as they did it. "Fine," she said. "Does anyone else have any questions?"

Ron opened his mouth, then closed it. He did it three more times before Hermione realized he wanted terribly to argue, but couldn't. Not logically, anyway.

"You'll have to make sure you don't take hold of the portkey yourself," Harry pointed out to Hermione. "We would have to aim to kill whoever—or _whatever_," he amended grimly, in an apparent reference to Voldemort, "landed in the room the moment the portkey was taken."

"Yes, understood," Hermione said briskly. "I am not, in fact, an idiot."

She didn't add that it was because of her they even had a plan to begin with; time did not allow. Instead, she set about making the pieces of their assassination come together. Tomorrow, she told them, she would deliver the note, and then they would have another day to swap out the portkey. Following that, they would position themselves for Draco's arrival. A simple plot, really. She had already seen Draco travel, so she knew nobody would be accompanying him. She also knew he would only take a portkey, so all of this followed logically from there.

"Do you need a handwriting sample from Theo?" she asked them.

The other two looked at Harry.

"No," he said evasively.

"Good," Hermione said, having already predicted as much. "Then have it ready for me tomorrow, and we'll take it from there."

Her tasks were simple enough. First she waltzed into a privy council meeting, startling Draco from where he'd been staring mindlessly out the window. "Husband," she said, curtseying for him with the usual shadows of Daphne and Pansy in her wake. "This came for you."

Draco scowled at her, though he accepted the note from her hands. "This couldn't wait, my turtledove?"

"Well, I wanted to discuss something with your council while I was here," she said, turning to face them. "My Lords, forgive me, but I see no reason to arrest Minister Dumbledore," she said, as several faces around the table flushed scarlet with dismay. "If you would like to accuse him of a _real_ crime, I suggest you find evidence befitting the rule of law, not your personal prejudices. For now, however, I—"

"What is the meaning of this?"

Draco had shot to his feet, gone pale at reading the letter. "Did you read this?" he demanded, glaring up at her.

"Me, my dearest husband, read your private correspondence? No, of course not," said Hermione, batting her lashes. "Why, is something the matter?"

Draco stared at the page, then at her. Then, abruptly, he paused to collect himself.

"Lord Nott," he said, turning coldly to the elder courtier, "you will arrange a portkey. It seems I have been invited to luncheon with your son." Draco glared at Hermione, adding, "I can only presume, of course, that my indomitable wife has fostered a kinship with him over their many years together at Hogwarts."

"My household should be glad to host you, Your Majesty," said the elder Nott, deplorably delighted. "I must say, I did not think my son capable of such hospitality. It pleases me to hear otherwise."

"Well, Theodore is very hospitable, My Lord, as surely this invitation proves. Either that, or my fastidious wife plots endlessly for my imminent death," Draco said, waving the thought away with a tinkling laugh, "but certainly more likely the former, given the delicacy of her temperament. Is that all? Wonderful," he said, and stalked out of the room, not even bothering to wait for the nobles to finish their protests.

Hermione assumed, of course, that sneaking Harry, Ron, and Neville into the palace would be the next most difficult task. Not so.

"What are you doing?" Theo hissed, startling her in one of the palace corridors.

Hermione glanced warningly at him, gesturing to where Pansy stood on her left. "My Lord," she cautioned Theo through her teeth, "is there something I can help you with?"

She had learned, at least, to differentiate between the personalities of her two primary ladies-in-waiting. She knew that Pansy not only didn't like her, but also did not like anyone, or at least openly resented the fact that she was constantly having to be in Daphne's presence. Daphne, on the other hand, made much more of a point to be useful, eternally offering her services or asking if Hermione had any further needs. If it had been Daphne, Hermione would have had a more difficult time dismissing her, but it was relatively straightforward to coax Theo off to the side, safely within Pansy's line of sight but outside hearing range.

"What," Theo repeated sharply, "are you _doing_? My father just informed me that I summoned the king to our estate, and given that I certainly did no such thing and _you_ delivered the message—"

"You," Hermione said, "should really focus your attention on preparing your household for a royal visit. There are many details for you to attend to, no?"

Theo's mouth tightened, and he stepped closer, dropping his voice. "I can only assume by now that you know the truth about Draco," he said, scarcely above a breath. "Whatever you're plotting, trust me, it won't work."

"Plotting? Never," Hermione said, adding innocently, "And you are Draco's _friend_, are you not? Why wouldn't you want to see him?"

Theo looked as if he wanted to strike her. "You don't know what he really is," he began, but Hermione gave a melodic laugh, as if he'd told a joke.

"You're so very clever, My Lord," she said for Pansy's benefit, adding through her teeth, "You just said I know the truth by now, don't I? So yes, I think I know _precisely_ what he is."

Theo remained unconvinced. "Someone must be helping you," he accused. "There's no way you're acting alone, and—" The idea seemed to root itself in his thoughts, his hawkish eyes suddenly widening. "You found them, didn't you? You must have. Where are they?" he demanded, closing his hand around her arm. "You have to tell me. They have to know th-"

"I do hate to keep you, My Lord," Hermione said loudly, removing herself from Theo's grip. "Be sure to have your elves prepare some cakes, would you? The king has quite a sweet tooth, as I'm sure you know. Lady Pansy," she beckoned, as Pansy dragged herself into an unwilling curtsey, "shall we continue?"

Hermione had expected Draco to summon her to his rooms as he had done for the few weeks prior, but to her surprise, for the second night in a row, he did not. Instead, he dismissed himself early once more.

"Is it about me," Draco said before he left, "or Theo?"

Hermione blinked, taken aback. "What?"

"Well, this is obviously madness, so I have to presume that either you are using Theo in order to trap me, or you simply want to see Theo yourself, which would be highly improper, my sweetest heart," he remarked offhandedly. "Though, I suppose it's no coincidence he was looking for you the night I asked for your hand, is it?"

Three things struck Hermione at once: the first being that Pansy was, indeed, spying on her. The second was that Draco did, indeed, believe Theo had sent him the note.

The third was much more surprising. "Are you… _jealous_?" she asked, finding herself totally astonished by the prospect. Draco, of course, turned to her with his usual scowl, which was accented this evening by his plum-colored coat.

"Jealous," he echoed in a low tone, "that you might prefer to cast yourself into the arms of anyone who did not openly wish you dead, dearest pearl? Surely even you would not find me so unreasonable."

Hermione felt her temper flare again, as only Draco could manage to do in so few words. Sometimes she suspected he didn't even have to speak; all he had to do was look at her, and she would undoubtedly intuit the insult implied.

"So what if I were carrying on with Theo in secret, hm? You certainly wouldn't _kill_ me over it," she taunted, "would you?"

"There she is, my sweet-tempered doe. Try not to die in your sleep; can't think what I'd do without you," he drawled, and subsequently turned away, dismissing himself for the evening.

Whether or not she spent her nights in the king's bed was extremely public knowledge, so of course on the day following that one she was even more closely watched. She snuck Harry, Ron, and Neville in through the mirror of her inner chambers, barking at them to make sure they stayed out of sight—they, luckily, had a cloak with which to do so, whereas she only had the excuse of someone with an egregiously overactive bladder whenever she wanted to disappear—and returned to the business of queening.

That evening, too, Draco expressed no interest in her.

"Goodnight," he said, not even bothering to attempt any conversation or frustrating endearments, but she stepped in his path, blocking him.

"What sort of game are you playing?" she demanded, irritated, and he gave her a disinterested glance. That evening he was wearing pearlescent white trimmed with gold, giving him a deeply distressing glow. He had a tendency to be so beautiful she could hardly stand the sight, and it rendered her positively furious.

"The same one as you, I expect," he said. "Is there something you needed, my duplicitous fawn?"

"I—" Her mouth tightened, and he motioned for her to move, indicating that he would leave if she didn't proceed to speak. Unhelpfully, though, the first thing out of her mouth was the truth: a question to which she needed an answer. "Why did you give me this ring?"

He seemed startled at first, though he recovered quickly, turning his gaze away from the stone on her finger. "I didn't give it to you, I left it with you," he said again, and she fought a groan.

"Yes, you've said that, but—"

"I have my reasons," he interrupted, and then, after a furtive glance around, "As I believe I mentioned, I have a terrible habit. It's best if I don't leave shiny things lying around to tempt it."

She considered that a moment, frowning. "But—"

"I did not know, of course, that you were _also_ demonically tempted by things that glitter," he said, adding, "Have I at least given you enough jewels to satisfy your cravings by now, my darling bride?"

Once again, he had annoyed her beyond the point of exasperation.

"What was your goal, exactly?" she demanded, finding that to be the one thing she couldn't unlock, no matter how much she turned it over in her mind. Why make a deal with a demon to begin with? Power, yes, but at what cost? "You were already born a _prince_," she hissed, infuriated for reasons she could hardly explain, even to herself. "You were going to become king regardless. Why on earth did you need more?"

Draco gave her another of the glances she associated with a particular version of him; a secretive one. It wasn't his demon, but it was so starkly cold and filled with fury she was beginning to wonder if it was pain.

"If you want Theo, my vengeful queen, then have him," he said bluntly. "Next time leave me out of it. Be discreet about it or don't, I don't care. You'll be dead soon regardless."

Then he turned away, dismissing himself for bed and leaving Hermione to wonder what she might have failed to read between the lines.

* * *

Draco had told Hermione the truth: he did not know where the demon went when it wasn't present in his thoughts. He always imagined it curled up somewhere in his kidneys, biding its time, taking a nap. The days it had turned its attention elsewhere were so close to freedom Draco could practically taste the relief on his tongue.

He still followed his usual rules; no excessive eating or drinking, vigorous exercise, all the usual meticulous attention to his bodily health. Unlike usual, he permitted himself much more time to paint, which the demon considered a trivial use of time, and to read, which the demon really didn't care for (unless it was Merlin or Machiavelli, the demon had no interest in any works of prose). He also allowed his mind to wander more generously, though he wished he had something more pleasant to consider when it did. Unfortunately, all that entered his mind was his guileful wife.

Perhaps it was because Hermione was the only person who had ever spent so much time in his presence since his mother had died that Draco found himself increasingly curious what she was up to. Not because she was trying to murder him, though she almost certainly was, but rather, because he sincerely didn't know. Everyone else was so predictable; courtiers flattered him and drank copious amounts of wine. Advisors complained about his lack of money. Dumbledore incited riots, or whatever it was Dumbledore incited. Everything was the same from day to day, and almost nobody was interesting except for Hermione, who could both irritate him to wit's end _and_ disappear through solid wall. How was she doing it? The ring, probably, but she had figured out how to use it, which was saying something. Neither Draco nor his mother had ever known what it was for.

The day Pansy reported to him that Theo and Hermione had been whispering indecently in a shadowed corner of the palace had been somewhat disappointing, if only because it was so reprehensibly common. An affair! How dreary. It wasn't even about him. All this time he'd been fantasizing that his wife had a secret room full of detailed drawings, countless sketches and notes; annotations of how she'd tear him apart limb by limb, plus elaborate maps for where she planned to bury the body.

In reality, his fixation was entirely one-sided. They weren't playing a game of how to kill the other; _he_ was playing a game, and _she_ was… Well, he hadn't the slightest idea. He had never been with a woman, for obvious demonic reasons. He'd never even touched one; at least, not one he wasn't murdering, which wasn't even technically him, and aside from that was mostly circumstantial. The only kiss he'd ever had, the one sealing his doomed marriage, was so filled with contempt he could still taste her hatred in the depths of his dreamless sleep.

He didn't blame her that it was Theo. Theo had been his favorite person once, aside from his mother and sometimes (depending on the day) his father. So it certainly wasn't that.

He didn't mind the betrayal aspect, either. He was going to kill her eventually, wasn't he? So the demon was right; it was best he didn't get attached.

Still, he couldn't help noticing how Hermione took his arm reflexively now; with a sense of habit, almost. True, she knew it was expected of her, particularly when they were in public, but she no longer looked as if it made her skin crawl to touch him. She simply rested her hand on his arm without shrinking away. Without flinching. She no longer jumped when she saw him coming; true, she still sometimes disappeared, but it was more of a premeditated escape, not a hitch of panic. She wanted to avoid him, certainly, but not as a survival technique. She just couldn't stand him. How acutely ordinary; how serenely ungrotesque! Occasionally it even seemed as if she hated him for him, and not for his demon.

The idea was so positively exhilarating he sometimes found it difficult to breathe.

On the day they were going to Theo's estate, Hermione took his arm like always, letting him lead her into the large drawing room. She was wearing a pale blue gown trimmed with lace, which was much too frothily delicate. It was meant for someone like Daphne or Pansy, and Hermione didn't look notable or even particularly beautiful, but she looked… uncomfortable. Like he felt.

Something flickered in his chest at the thought of them sharing a sensation, though it vanished just as quickly as it arrived.

"If you're going to kill me," he murmured to her, "do it well."

She blinked, glancing up at him from the drowsy elsewhere of her thoughts. "What?"

"Do it as expertly as possible," he advised. "Truthfully, I don't expect you to manage it, but if you're going to try, at least use a sharp sword. Or a spell, if you have an accomplice, which I hope you do. All things considered, I'd rather not die from a head wound."

For a moment, she didn't say anything.

"My father tried to stab me once," Draco remarked offhandedly. That was what three days without a demon would do, it seemed; he began saying fruitless things out loud. "I was once tossed out a window, also. I didn't like that much. Unbreaking all of my bones was… unpleasant. I wouldn't wish to suffer it again." A pause. "Drowning is equally unpleasant, come to think of it, and fire not much better. Have you ever had so much pressure in your lungs you _wished_ for death? Probably not." A sigh. "Probably not."

Nott, in a convenient stroke of inaccurate hearing, appeared at Draco's side. "Are you ready, Your Majesty?" Nott said, bowing to indicate the portkey's readiness. It was a laughably salacious lady's stocking, which would be the first Draco would ever touch. Probably the last, as well. "I will apparate myself, of course, but as always—" Here, Nott gave the usual bow intended to congratulate himself on his ability to perform simple tasks. "I have personally seen to your preferred arrangements."

"Wonderful, splendid, a tasteful choice as ever, My Lord. And you, my scintillating fox?" Draco prompted, turning to Hermione, who looked as if she'd gone temporarily comatose. "Are you ready?"

The portkey began to glow. Warily, Hermione's hand loosened on his arm.

"Ready," she said.

* * *

"Let go just before Draco takes hold of the portkey," Harry had whispered to her that morning, sneaking into her privy chambers in his cloak before leaving with the others for the Nott estate. "Do whatever you have to in order to ensure it—fake a sneeze or something," he suggested, "but you'll have to make sure Draco goes alone. Do you understand?"

Yes, she understood; she wasn't an idiot.

But when Draco reached out for the stocking, something in her froze, and she didn't let go.

As it turned out, she was a rather spectacular idiot indeed.

The moment their feet touched the ground, the portkey having successfully transported them to their location, Hermione tugged Draco down to the floor, the two of them just missing a vibrant flash of light from a corner of the darkened study.

"Get us out of here," she whispered to Draco, shaking with uncertainty.

What had she done?

Too late to reconsider.

Draco waved a hand, and in an instant they were gone.

They landed a second time in a bedroom she didn't recognize; a private chamber of some sort, vacant and quiet. She leapt to her feet as hastily as she could in this wretched lace gown, yanking him upright.

"Tell me the truth," she said, mouth dry. She was positive she'd done something foolish, only she couldn't have let him die until she had an answer. Her brain would not have allowed it. "Did you make the deal with Voldemort?"

It had been driving her mad for days. Children did silly things all the time, yes, but what four-year-old would have agreed to house a demon?

Draco, despite narrowly avoiding his death, was predictably unhelpful. He brushed a misplaced curl from his forehead, giving her a look of supreme impatience. "My impish little dandelion," he sighed, adjusting his waistcoat, "did you just foil your own assassination plot? And after I specifically told you not to muck it up, too."

"Draco," she snapped, taking a fistful of his coat in one hand. The silver stitching gleamed in her fingers against the blue of the silk, deep like the pitch of a midnight sky. "I need to know. Were you the one who made the deal or not?"

He looked away. "I don't see what difference it makes, my auroral little—"

"Stop it. _Stop_." It came out sharper than she intended, and she stared up at him, watching the motion of his throat when he swallowed, obliging her with silence. "Just tell me." That time it was a whisper; a plea. "I can't do it, Draco. You don't know what you're forcing me into." Another heavy swallow, this time from her. "I can't wonder for the rest of my life if I killed an innocent man. It would destroy me."

"I'm not innocent." His voice broke slightly, and for the first time, she wondered if he was afraid.

"But was it you?"

His eyes were wide and grey and bright with conflict, and she would know if he lied.

She was learning, reluctantly, that she always knew when he lied.

"No," he said eventually. "No. I didn't make the deal."

She deflated slightly, wishing she'd been wrong; knowing for sure now that she wasn't.

"Then how—"

"Who gets a curse when someone makes a deal for power?" She felt his body tense with bitterness, chest rising and falling beneath her hands. "Never the person who makes the deal, Hermione. Never them."

Every fairy tale she'd ever heard floated into her head, threading between strands of disbelief.

A curse. He thought Voldemort was a _curse_.

"You were born with him in your head," she realized aloud, suddenly feeling sorrier for him than she ever dreamed she could, and for a moment, he looked at her with such relief—such _gratitude_—she thought he was going to kiss her.

She watched him moisten his lips, his grey gaze dropping to her mouth.

She would push him away, of course. Of course she would.

Yes, she was in his arms, and yes, she'd saved his life, but he was still a monster. No, not a monster; a boy who'd been cursed with a monster. Fine, even so; he was still a prick, an arrogant prick. A beautiful, arrogant, too-clever prick. He was unkind and unpleasant and undeniably, painfully handsome, and under her fingers he was so warm, clinging to her like a craving, like salvation itself. She could feel his pulse racing below her touch.

He was going to kiss her and she was going to push him away. No, he was going to kiss her and she was going to kiss him back, just once. Just to try it. No, don't be silly, he wasn't going to kiss her. He hated her, and she hated him. If anything, she would kiss him first, if only to prevent whatever stupid thing he said next: my pearlescent heart. My cherished bird. My owl of everlasting wonder.

Precious, darling, dearest. He was so cruel when he was sweet to her, taunting her with endearment. She had never been precious or darling or dear to _anyone_, and he repeatedly misused her with it; abused her with his empty words. His mouth was perfect, and surely it would taste bitter, like disappointment, or else as falsely saccharine as his lies. If they kissed it would change nothing. She had the truth she needed; he would still have to be killed! She couldn't kiss him, that was mad, because it would change everything. No, of course not, but it would change… something. Already, something had happened; he wasn't looking at her like he wanted her dead. He looked at her like he wanted to keep looking and looking and looking until he ran out of places to look.

This close, she could feel his intake of breath.

Without warning, his grip on her tightened, and his lips parted; for a moment, lost to silent pleading, nothing came out.

Then she felt it. The pain of his voice in her mind.

"My apologies, little queen," said Voldemort silkily, clawing Draco's nails into her arm. "I'm afraid your time is up."

* * *

_**a/n: **__The playlist for this fic is now available on Spotify! I enjoy it, which I hope is a ringing endorsement. For mariafrancia76, joey99, and karma_cookie. Thank you so much for following along!_


	6. A Little Learning (Is a Dangerous Thing)

**Chapter 6: A Little Learning (Is a Dangerous Thing)**

Well, that settles it. Lady Vengeance was clearly out of her mind.

"You think she was wrong to save Prince Draco's life?" your grandmother asks primly. "Some would call it an act of mercy, petal."

Mercy is one thing, but leaving herself entirely vulnerable by disappearing to an unknown location with the man she knows perfectly well contains a demon? _Without a wand?_ There's mercy and then there's madness!

"Well, I suppose that's true," sighs your grandmother. "Though, in my experience there is always a bit of madness implied in these things."

In what things? Demon wrangling? And you haven't even begun to mention the revolting despotism of the wizarding aristocracy. The nobles wanted to have the Minister executed just for speaking out against the flaws of the monarchy? How positively tyrannical! And if it wasn't Prince Draco who made the deal, then surely it was his father. Essentially, there's no telling how deep the corruption of power goes!

(Not that any of this is real, of course. But still.)

"Power and morality rarely intersect," your grandmother laments, though she adds, "Which is what's so very remarkable about Lady Vengeance, don't you think? She could have been selfish, but she chose to honor her conscience instead. If it is weakness, petal, to do what any other person might have done in her place, then perhaps it is not worth it to always be strong."

That's nonsense, of course; your grandmother is merely waxing poetic. Surely a strong woman is one who fights back; who makes no apologies for putting herself first. Why was Prince Draco's life worth risking Lady Vengeance's own? You highly doubt Prince Draco would have done the same for her, you remark with something you suspect to be a scowl.

"Well, if one must receive things first in order to give them, what sort of world would that be?" your grandmother prompts indignantly. "If Lady Vengeance offered no kindness because she had received none, would that not be a weakness of its own kind? If to show mercy is inherently to risk oneself, then perhaps there is bravery in that, and therefore strength."

You obscure a dissatisfied scoff. Why bother calling her Lady Vengeance, then, instead of Lady Mercy, or Lady Benevolence? You thought this was going to be a story about a woman who took what she was owed, after all.

"Vengeance isn't cruelty, petal," your grandmother says, "nor is it theft. It is merely the task of reparation; payment in kind. One reaps what one sows, in the end." Grandmother plucks her cup from the saucer, smiling idly into nothing. "And besides," your grandmother says, sipping her tea, "those who were cruel to Lady Vengeance would very soon have great cause to heartily regret what they'd done."

* * *

_**The Mysterious Resurrection of King Draco I, 1725  
**__Nott Manor, Northumberland, England  
Nine Months Before The Fall_

There was a moment when Draco thought he might kiss her.

It seemed the right thing to do, really. After all, she was under the impression that she had just rescued him (which he supposed she had done, at least under some umbrella of technicalities, and anyway, it was the thought that counted). In her mind, she had rescued him, and it was her mind that mattered. His was tainted for obvious reasons, but hers, which had considered him worth saving, was not; and besides, he was fairly sure she wouldn't try to kill him again. She really hadn't tried very hard to begin with, so he had to assume her heart wasn't in it. Not that he claimed to know anything about her heart or its functions, but she seemed the sort to really commit to something once it had been decided, and he was not dead yet. By process of deduction, it might be satisfactorily assumed that there was at least some part of her that did not want to be responsible for killing him.

He supposed if he kissed her there was a very good chance she would shove him away, or perhaps run screaming from the room. Distantly, he calculated that perhaps he might be able to stand it if she did. He had quite a lot of experience with screaming women, more so than with other types of women, and with screaming in general, so it wasn't as if he would take it personally. True, he had just confessed some highly personal information and would therefore find it somewhat discouraging if she fled, but perhaps it was still worth it to try…? Unclear.

Perhaps she did not want him to kiss her, which he could certainly understand. He did not care much for being made to do things, which he frequently was. Better to offer it as a choice, however unattractive that might have been. Yes, I know I'm king and all that, but may I kiss you? Perhaps he would even say please. No no, that would be outrageous, he would simply ask and be done with it. May I kiss you? Ah, but then she would ask why, and he would have no answer. Because I want to? Because I'm a man, Granger, and it's a natural impulse. Because you nearly killed me (not really, but close enough) and the body's natural response to death is sex. Because it's an impulse, woman! Because, because, because.

In any case, assuming she said yes, he would have to do it gently. He didn't want to startle her, after all. True, he would probably still have to kill her, which was unfortunate. Maybe it was best if he didn't kiss her, then, as it would send mixed messages. But she was very warm, wasn't she? Holding her like this sent a buzz of something through his limbs, jolting out from his palms. She still wasn't a court beauty and he didn't care for the lace of her gown any more than he had before, but she reminded him of something. A feeling, really. A glimpse of relief in a life that had contained very little. He wanted to inhale it, breathe it in. To take it like a sip of honeyed wine, seeping in through the velvet of her lips.

Draco's first memory was, surprisingly or not, of the demon. He was just beginning to show evidence of magic at the time, and he had been reaching for something. A bird; one of his mother's. She kept pet birds, or had at one point. _Like this_, the demon had said in his thoughts, followed by an expulsion from his palm. A burst of color, bright bright bright. His mother screaming and screaming, and then a single feather Draco had plucked from the air with two fingers.

How soft it was, how delicate. _Good little princelet_, said the demon, and it was like a purr in his thoughts, a stroke in his mind. _You're doing so well._

It was the wanting that had done it, then and now. The reaching. The touch of her lace against his fingers, so feather-light and songbird-sweet. He had been so careful not to long too intently, containing his desperation to the fortress of his thoughts, but the dastardly bit of being human was the inevitable eruption of wanting. It was not a thought, but a yearning. It came so easily, even when he pushed it aside.

_Good little princelet_, said the demon, yawning from its slumbering void. _You're doing so well._

_No_, he thought, and opened his mouth to warn her. _No, no, wait—_

He was shoved aside, forced into the recesses of his own mind despite his struggle to remain where he was, clawing for his own cognition. All these years! He had done so well unlearning the impracticalities of wanting, and now she'd robbed him of his progress. Alluring Hermione, with all her repugnant enticements. She had sauntered in thinking she could save his life and now, momentarily, she would be gone. What a waste.

The idea that she had tried to save him was hell on its own; reciprocation she was owed, in the form of a war he ought to fight. It was a fight he would lose, of course, but the lag was what mattered. She had only needed a lag to decide to save him, hadn't she? He had felt her grip on him give way for a moment, teetering between options, and now he was doing the same in the form of manic thoughts: Wait, wait, wait, just one moment! Just let me kiss her before she dies; maybe if I do it, she'll finally learn how to run.

_Let go, princelet. Now._

Beaten and sore, Draco released his hold on his consciousness to slide away into the dregs of blackened oblivion, curling up inside his pain and huddling there for warmth. He saw only one thing before he went: the opening of the door behind her.

Well. If she hadn't preferred Theo before, she certainly would now.

* * *

There was less than a moment for Hermione to feel sickened, resigning herself to defeat and imminent death, before someone grabbed hold of her arm, wrenching it hard. She heard a shout of something, enough to make Voldemort cry out in pain from whatever had been done to Draco's body, and then Hermione was swallowed up by the air and left to tumble gracelessly backwards, tripping (for heaven's sake) once more over her useless gown.

Wherever she'd been taken this time, it was somewhere very close to nowhere. She was in the middle of a massive field, as far as she could tell; she shivered in her flimsy lace and spun, facing Theo with a gasp.

"How did you—"

"You didn't arrive where you were meant to," Theo said flatly. "The portkey was tampered with and the wards in my house were altered. Did you think I wouldn't piece it together?"

She straightened, slowly recovering from her moment of panic. "Where were we? I told him to take us somewhere, but—"

"My personal chambers. And that's enough questions." To her astonishment, Theo raised his wand, pointing it directly at her forehead. "Where is he?"

"What?" The glint in Theo's eyes, while hardly Voldemort-esque, shone with fury and pain, unmissable. Much as she hadn't expected him to threaten her, she didn't doubt that he now had every intention to try. "You saw him," Hermione said, trying to take a surreptitious step backwards. Her skirts rustled noisily; bloody royal gowns. Nuisances, the lot of them. "If you want to go back to where we just left, that's on you," she added irritably, "but you know perfectly well he's—"

"Not Draco." Theo's mouth was a thin, grim line. "Only one person would have plotted an ambush as stupid as this one. Not to mention that only one person could have gotten into my father's house—to _my_ house. This whole plan reeks of him," Theo spat, "and you clearly aren't working alone, so where is he?"

"I—" Rapidly, Hermione tried to piece together something of an answer, concluding with a semi-unconvincing, "I don't know what you're talking about."

Theo's hand tightened on his wand. "Seriously?"

She gritted her teeth, frustrated. "Fine." How had she possibly gone from saving her husband's life to nearly being eaten by his demon to now being held hostage by the noble he suspected her of having an affair with? Life had been one unending series of nonsense since the moment she'd put on this ring. "I don't know where he is, Theo. Your house, I assume. Though I have to hope he's not stupid enough to stay there long."

"You have to take me to him," Theo said, and redoubled his effort at threatening her, jabbing the wand in her face. "You'll take me to him. Now."

But even she could see the way his fingers trembled.

"Harry must have his reasons," she said, watching Theo flinch at the mention of his name. "You know he must."

After all, Harry had taken none of his belongings from Hogwarts except for a "handwriting sample" from Theo. That didn't exactly seem like the work of someone maliciously withholding.

"It's not… It's not personal. He needs to know something." Theo wasn't looking entirely at her, focused instead on something happening in his head. "The things he's researching—"

"The Hallows?" Hermione asked, and Theo blinked with surprise, which was understandable. He must have spent the last few years (if not his entire lifetime) keeping it a secret, but she didn't really see the point of hiding them anymore; particularly not when the secret happened to be three things she only half-believed in.

"How did you—"

"Theo, I think we both know I'm married to a demon," she said in exasperation, "and clearly, you think I've managed to find a man who's been missing for a year. So can't we skip the niceties?"

Grudgingly, Theo lowered his wand. "How much do you know?"

"Why don't you start at the beginning," Hermione suggested, with not very much patience. "Though any time you want to vacate this murder field would be fine with me."

Theo rolled his eyes, then set off at a stomp, beckoning for her to follow. "Come on."

She trudged unsuccessfully after him, silently cursing his long legs. "Where are we?"

"Better I don't tell you."

"What?"

"Well, I don't actually know how well the demon can read minds," he said, shrugging. "But I can't imagine it's very happy at the moment, so I'd rather not give it a reason to come after me."

"You think it can—" Hermione gaped at him. "You think that demon might be reading _my_ mind? From here?"

"I don't know, do I? So, better if I don't take chances."

"But—" Theo's strides grew longer and Hermione's efforts to carry her skirts less successful. "How do you know about the demon?"

"I was there when it killed Narcissa," said Theo. "Draco's mother."

"I—" Hermione swallowed. True, she'd never really believed that Draco had been the one to kill Queen Narcissa, but knowing who was truly responsible was an exceptional layer of confusion. "Were they… I mean, was he—?"

"Close to his mother? Yes. She tried to coax the demon out. It refused." Theo gave her a sidelong glance. "You wouldn't have killed him, by the way," he added as apparent afterthought. "I kept trying to tell Potter that, but of course he's never listened to anyone a day in his life. Besides, he's never liked Draco."

"Do… you?" Hermione asked, unsure how to broach the possibility that Draco might have ever had a friend, though he must have. After all, Theo had not wanted her to reveal the truth of his condition to Dumbledore.

"Of course I like him," said Theo, seemingly annoyed by the question. "He isn't the same as the demon."

"Well, it's not as if you ever speak to each other—"

"Couldn't, could we? Not since the others started disappearing." Theo's expression grew somber, darkening like thunderclouds. "Anyway, about the Hallows. You know there are three?"

"Yes," Hermione said impatiently, "as does everyone who's ever heard of Beedle the Bard."

"Right, well, essentially every pureblood family can trace its lineage to the Peverells, who were the original three brothers. Thus, the Hallows must have been passed down through noble lines. As far as I can tell, the cloak went through the Potters, the wand was probably won by right of conquest and passed down through the royal line of Malfoys, and for a time, the stone was a mystery. Until, of course, I saw it on your hand," Theo said, glancing down at her ring, "and realized something I must have been foolish enough to miss: that obviously, the stone went through the Blacks."

Hermione, who was less familiar with wizarding genealogy, blinked. "What?"

"Narcissa. Draco's mother. It must have gone through her bloodline, or somehow, she must have ended up with it. I imagine that's why Lucius married her, which he probably only managed because he struck the deal with the demon in the first place."

"But what was the deal?" Hermione asked, frowning. "The Hallows in exchange for… securing his place on the throne?"

"Something like that. Though, can't be sure, can I?" Theo said, shrugging again. "Half the things I remember hearing the demon say in Draco's form are childhood memories, so I can't trust them. Not entirely. But I did know Narcissa hated Lucius; hated him for his ambition, for trapping her into marriage, for binding a demon to the bloodline of her son. And I know that when she died, she told the demon it would never find what it was looking for. I imagine that's why the stone stayed hidden for so long," Theo added offhandedly. "Vows made before death can be a rather mystifying thing."

"But Lucius is dead," Hermione pointed out, "so…"

"I have a guess about that, too," Theo offered in explanation, "which is that Lucius, upon realizing the demon was making itself more powerful via its implantation in Draco, tried to kill him and be rid of the demon himself. Or, perhaps, guilt finally got the better of him and he tried to undo his mistake. In any case," Theo finished grimly, "he did not succeed." A pause, and then, "And neither would you have succeeded, I'm afraid."

Hermione thought of Draco saying his father had tried to stab him and shuddered, revulsed.

"If you knew all of this, why didn't you tell me?" she demanded, as Theo gave a loud, long-suffering sigh.

"I tried," he said, tone stiff. "But I wasn't sure that you could be convinced to spare Draco's life if you knew what he was. Or what he contained."

"Voldemort, you mean?"

At that, Theo paused, slowing for a moment as a structure came into view. "Is that its name?"

"Yes," Hermione said. "At least, according to—well." She cleared her throat. "In any case, about the Hallows—"

"You've noticed Draco doesn't use a wand, haven't you?" Theo said. "He hid the stone once. I believe that now, he's hiding the wand."

"But how is that possible?" Hermione said, startled. "Didn't you say the demon could read minds?"

Theo opened his mouth, contemplating an answer, and then closed it again, thinking better of it.

"Perhaps you've wondered how Draco and I grew to be friends?" he asked, and though it wasn't an answer, Hermione warily conceded to listen. "There were rumors about him, you know. Always. Even as a child. Small animals killed, things stolen, damage left behind. People complained of a certain unnerving quality, or an itch in their brains." He smiled thinly. "Upon hearing the rumors, my father suggested to the king that perhaps the young prince simply needed a companion. Someone to keep him… entertained."

Hermione blinked, stunned. It seemed likely Theo's father had all but signed him up for torture; that Theo had somehow escaped it was certainly evidence of something. Either about himself, or about Draco.

"We had our lessons together for many years, nearly inseparably until I was sent to Hogwarts. Which is how I know that Draco is exceptional at occlumency," Theo explained, finally arriving at his answer to Hermione's question. "He would have had to be, given the circumstances. I don't think he can prevent the demon—Voldemort," Theo corrected himself carefully, "from entering his thoughts entirely, but I know he can keep some things secret if he wants to. He used to describe it as a vault; small enough to be overlooked, but strong enough to withstand Voldemort's entry."

"You think he hid the information about the ring inside his own mind?" Hermione asked, frowning with thought. "And now, possibly, the wand?"

They were approaching a freestanding cottage as they walked; the sort that sat upon on a larger estate, which meant they must not have gone far to begin with. She suspected they were still somewhere on Theo's property, though she tried immediately to unthink it, given what he had said about the demon.

"Draco is not what you think he is," Theo offered in answer, pausing before entering the cottage. "If he has kept his distance from me, it is to protect me."

"And what about Harry, then?" Hermione asked, as Theo stiffly glanced away. "If you want me to take you to him, I'm going to have to know what happened. I won't put him in danger," she cautioned, hoping he would believe that much, though he had at least done her the favor of no longer holding her at wand-point while making his demands. "You seem to think Draco's reasons for avoiding you are sound," she added. "Why not Harry's?"

Theo was silent, resting a hand on the door.

"It's different," he said.

"How?"

His jaw clenched. "It just is."

"And if I refuse?" she prompted.

He glared at her, narrow-eyed and contemptuous again.

"You need my help," he told her. "All of you do. They may have been gone, but I haven't stopped looking. I know things the lot of you don't—about Draco, about the demon itself. About Lucius and Narcissa. I know you can't destroy the demon," he said, "and I know you can't kill Draco; the demon won't let it happen. So, if you're going to try to destroy one, you'll have to separate them."

"And do you know how to do that?" Hermione prompted.

He gave her a look that meant no, but also, how dare she.

"It may not be possible," he said grumpily. "But if it is, you'll need me to do it."

She grimaced. She wasn't exactly optimistic about how useful he could be if he couldn't answer his own fundamental question, but he was right about at least one thing: Harry, Neville, and Ron certainly weren't going to figure it out on their own, and she needed someone else's help. She needed, at the very least, someone who knew the answers to her questions.

Like why she had felt so compelled to save her husband's life, even when Harry and the others had not.

"Fine," she said. "I'll speak to him. See if I can convince him. After all, you're probably in danger now," she sighed, remembering that he had rescued her from the demon's clutches, which she doubted was the sort of crime that went unpunished. "I don't think you can go back."

Theo shrugged in concession, a gesture ostensibly meant to indicate there were few things in his life worth coming back to, and pushed open the door.

"Where are we?" she asked, permitting him to gesture her inside first.

Theo tucked one hand in his waistcoat pocket, still playing at genteel mannerisms for purposes of avoiding the question. "A property of mine," he said evasively. "I used to use it on occasion when I needed time away."

"Used to?" Hermione asked, and jumped slightly, catching the motion of something to her left.

"Yes," said Harry Potter, rising to his feet. "Used to. Hello, Nott," he added, inclining his head as Theo came to a sudden halt. "I suppose I owe you an explanation."

For a moment, Hermione was sure Theo had stopped breathing; she suspected that if she had not been there to serve as an obstacle, he might have simply collapsed to the floor.

It appeared, though, that she was wrong. At least partially.

"An explanation," Theo said tightly, "would be splendid," right before he crossed the threshold and punched Harry in the face.

* * *

When Draco floated back into himself, limbs sore and aching, he found he was lying on his own bed, surrounded by almost no damage.

Strange. Had he not even shredded his bedding?

Ah, right. He had been in Theo's house last time he checked, which meant that if anything had been burned to the ground or pulverized to dust, it was probably there. What a relief.

"Your Majesty," intoned a hook-nosed courtier. No, not a courtier. A healer or something. Some sort of royal doctor, which meant a lower noble. Or perhaps Snape, the half-blood alchemist; Draco never could get his father's lesser aides straight. "Excellent, you're alive."

Draco struggled to sit up, and then immediately faltered.

"Do be careful," said the man. "Your bones are still healing, Majesty, and you've lost a lot of blood. It's a miracle you made it out alive."

He wondered if the demon had accidentally killed him again. That had happened once or twice before. Not out of malice (or as unmalicious as a demon could be, anyway), but rather, a consequence of underestimating the strength of its host. It was no wonder the demon craved its own body; it seemed to think, for whatever reason, that Draco's was especially weak, and he supposed it was. Compared to whatever the demon planned to make for itself using the Hallows, Draco must seem unsatisfactorily fragile.

His mouth was dry, tasting of chalk and potions. "What happened?"

"An attempt was made on your life, Majesty," said the man who was probably Snape, maybe. "Lord Nott uncovered you from the wreckage just in time to have you apparated back to the palace."

Ah yes, the wreckage. How very brave of Lord Nott. "And the queen?"

Snape gave an awkward sort of shuffle in retreat, mumbling something.

"Apologies, I clearly should have specified," Draco said impatiently. "In words, please."

"She's… well, I'm afraid that… the queen is—"

_Gone_, the demon sulked in his head. _The little witch and her weedy consort are gone. _

"—which is, perhaps, not such a bad thing? Perhaps she was able to escape whichever threat took aim for Your Majesties. I'm quite sure, of course, that someone will find her soon—"

_Not to worry, princelet. That skinny little nothing will depart this earth a pile of bone fragments before I'm through with him, and she will have plenty of cause to beg for my forgiveness._

Draco winced. "Right," he said, cutting Snape off mid-sentence. "Well, can you do something about this, please? Speed it up a bit?"

Snape blinked. "Majesty, as I said, there's only so much I can—"

"Not you," snapped Draco.

_My pleasure_, said the demon.

"—do," finished Snape, staring as Draco's bones reformed so rapidly he growled in pain, the pressure to expand the healing fractures nearly bursting through his skin. "Is… is there anything else, or…?"

Draco rolled out the kinks in his neck, cracking his spine back into place. The pain was excruciating, as to be expected under these sorts of circumstances, but there was no point waiting in bed for normal magic to heal him.

And anyway, there were worse things to feel.

"Make sure the queen is delivered to me the moment she arrives," Draco instructed Snape, who was probably not any sort of servant or messenger, but the distinction did not seem particularly worth making. "There will be no need to continue the search for her. I trust she will return soon enough."

Then he swung his feet around to the side of the bed, clearing the last little blur of dizziness from his eyes and rising to his feet.

As he walked, Draco tore up a little corner of his thoughts and tucked it away, the buzz of the demon's rage too unsettled to notice any motion. _I do not know how much more of this I can take_ was sealed for safekeeping on a scrap of mental parchment, locked tightly within the constraints of his control. There was no telling what the demon would do with it, had it known it existed; better to secure it away, like most things he thought and felt.

"Well," Draco said. "Shall we see where bewitching Hermione's enchanted off to now, or shall we simply wait for her return?"

_I find I no longer want to make use of the insolent little wretch so quickly, truth be told. I don't suppose you'd let me have her for a lengthy period of torment? Though, I would not be opposed to the prospect of persuading you. _A sharp jab to his head, a prickle of humor, was met with a flinch. _I'm starting to think you like her, princelet. I'm concerned she may be causing you to act against me once again._

"Against you, my glorious liege? I would not dream of it," Draco said. "And even if I could, I would still be quite incapable, I suspect. You've proven that often enough, have you not?"

_Ah yes, I have. Still, you're a very good pet, princelet. Always so considerate._

Yes, always. His rebellions were so careful and small that perhaps no one would ever see them, and eventually there would be no point in trying. How long, after all, until the demon tired of him the way it tired of everything else?

It would cast him off like an old coat eventually; by then, at least, no bones would need to be regrown.

"I," Draco realized aloud, "am famished."

At once, three elves appeared at his feet, tittering something about pheasants.

_Eat well, princelet,_ the demon advised approvingly. _You will need your strength soon enough._

* * *

By the time Hermione returned to the palace, she was tired and still quite cold, and had not been especially able to solve many of her existing problems. In fact, she had new ones, more complex than before, which in fairness had been quite simple even if they were deeply upsetting (kill a demon, stay alive, so on and so forth). Now, unfortunately, things had settled into shades of grey. Theo, once he'd satisfied his initial craving for reparatory violence, seemed convinced the demon could not be killed; at least, not by conventional methods. Harry, on the other hand, argued that evidence for the demon's growing power suggested he _needed_ to be killed, and soon, which Hermione could not meaningfully dispute. Much as both observations were probably true, they were also impossible to reconcile. How to kill a demon who could not be killed but also, _must _be killed? Which was not even to mention the most troubling shade of grey; i.e., the one Hermione fully expected to find leveled at her when she returned home to the possessed king she had married.

How would they kill Voldemort without killing Draco, and also, what would she do when faced with her husband again?

She sent Theo and Harry into the reflective realm via one of the cottage's mirrors and instructed them to meet her in her rooms at the palace, waving down one of the guards and requesting (politely but firmly) to be taken home immediately. She needed a bath, she said, leaving out any additional necessities, such as a wooden stake or holy water ("You're thinking of vampires," said Harry unhelpfully) she hoped to acquire before her next run-in with the Draco-shaped devil. Truthfully, logistics were all that any of the three of them seemed able to handle; Harry had sent Neville and Ron off to the palace with the cloak to wait for her return, not specifying why he had chosen to stay behind, or why he had not tried to hit Theo back, or why he had not blamed Hermione for foiling their assassination attempts. Those things, Hermione figured, all stemmed from the same illogical thread of reason, none of which she wanted to think about extending to herself.

She had not wanted to think about much of anything, which was why she entered her chambers in something of a mindless hurry, and was therefore unable to explain the silk-covered arrow that shot into her upon arrival.

"Oh, you're alive!" said Daphne, who was suddenly quite overcome with emotion. Hermione, unsure what to make of the unexpected welcome, petted Daphne's curls with confusion, frowning at the spot she must have recently occupied beside Pansy at the window. "Apologies," Daphne managed after a moment, wiping her eyes and taking a firm step back, falling gracefully into a curtsey. "Would Your Majesty like a bath?"

"Uh," said Hermione, who observed with astonishment that Pansy, too, was tight-lipped with something; concern? No, impossible—and yet… was it? "Did something… happen?"

"Well, when the king arrived back ages ago and you did not, we feared—" Daphne broke off, clearing her throat; a little flicker of terror passing fleetingly over her face before smoothing back into her usual delicate prettiness. "Well, never mind us, Majesty. We're pleased to see you home, and—"

"Pansy," Hermione said, glancing over Daphne's shoulder to spot her other lady-in-waiting, who remained at a careful distance. "Is everything alright?"

Not that she hadn't found Daphne's reaction odd, but there was something particularly strange about Pansy. That evening, the Lady Pansy wore a gown of marigold yellow, rich with color, that left the raven of her hair and eyes to stand in stark contrast to the sallow pallor of her skin.

"Your Majesty," Pansy said, falling into a curtsey and pointedly avoiding her eye. To Hermione's view, Pansy's typically rouged cheeks bore evidence of disruption. Perhaps she and Daphne had been fighting in her absence, though that was no more illuminating a thought. Hermione would not have predicted Pansy to be the one to cry. "We are pleased to see you unharmed. Now, if we may return to our usual tasks—"

"You both thought I was dead?" she said in disbelief, pausing both Daphne and Pansy in their tracks before they could return to the business of gathering Hermione's innumerable articles of clothing. "Why on earth would you think that? Unless—"

It occurred to Hermione, probably much too late, that just as she had never asked Theo how he had known Draco, she had never quite understood how these two had known him, either. They seemed to purposely never mention their interactions with him, which was odd. How often had their fathers boasted of their proximity to the king?

"You know," Hermione realized, as Daphne and Pansy exchanged a swift sidelong glance. "You do, don't you? You know about the king!"

"Your Majesty is very tired, I'm sure," said Daphne quickly. "We should prepare you for dinner, and—"

"The king is possessed by a demon," Hermione said, as both women froze in place, compelled by decorum (Hermione assumed) to remain still rather than give themselves away. "Obviously you know as much, or at least suspect it. How long have you been aware?"

This, Hermione thought, could change everything. If they knew what Draco was, then perhaps she'd been mistaken to presume them her enemies. She had always thought Pansy hoped to be next, but what if, instead, Pansy merely _feared _she would be next?

"Tell me the truth," Hermione said flatly, having grown comfortable with the business of a queen's command, and Daphne flinched.

"Majesty, it would not be proper t-"

"There is a monster inside him," said Pansy flatly. When Daphne's mouth fell open, somewhere between dismay and astonishment, Pansy gave her an admonishing glance. "She clearly knows! Any further pretense is as much proof of our idiocy as it is evidence for complicity. Yes, we know," she concluded snippily, turning to Hermione. "And we feared your death would be on our hands for saying nothing."

"There is little we _can_ say," Daphne argued in a trembling voice, as Hermione pieced together the hollow tones of repetition between them. So, this had been their argument, then. The two of them had argued over whether they were at fault for their queen's fate. "If we did, no one would believe us. Our fathers did not, and even if there was someone who could do something about it, what could be done?"

"Still, we ought to hide you," Pansy said with perfunctory stiffness, which grew more frantic the longer she spoke. "You may not be fit for the throne, but you are certainly unfit for cruelty, and anyway, nobody born for this particular crown could hold it and their heads at the same time. Already the rumors say the king has regrown his bones and risen up from his deathbed! Whatever monster he contains, it will need to be fed, and soon. What we ought to do is leave," she suddenly exclaimed, advancing wildly toward Hermione's wardrobe, "and—"

There was a brief, muffled sound of something like an "oof," and Pansy stared at the vacancy, dark eyes abruptly blown wide.

"Majesty," she said, withdrawing her wand so deftly and with such skill that even Hermione nearly leapt back in shock. "I do not wish to alarm you, but there is someone in the room with us."

Ah, rats, sighed Hermione internally. Of course Neville and Ron would be incapable of hiding themselves somewhere _actually_ inconspicuous. Regrettably, before she could say "it's fine, those hapless boys are with me," Daphne, too, had slipped her wand swiftly from where it was concealed in her skirts, taking aim with aptitude equal to (or perhaps even surpassing) Pansy's.

"Wait, don't—_my goodness_," Hermione exhaled sharply, leaping to offset Daphne's stunning spell and narrowly avoiding the sting of it herself. "How are you both so proficient at this?" she panted, glancing at Daphne with alarm.

"Dueling is as expected of ladies at court as embroidery or dancing," said Pansy, who had not lowered her wand. "Granted, bloodshed is generally considered uncouth—"

"But that being said," Daphne said, with as much smuggery as Hermione had ever seen from her, "we are beholden to the demands of practicality."

"Well, that's… unexpected, but anyway, Neville, Ron, just come out," sighed Hermione, as they sheepishly ducked out from beneath the cloak, revealing themselves one by one. "Obviously I chose the wrong people to collaborate with when it came to assassination—"

"You," Pansy said to Neville, flicking her gaze down to his breeches, "look as if you could stand to lose a few choice parts for sneaking into the queen's private chambers."

"Well, I don't particularly think that's fair," said Neville hastily.

Hermione nudged Pansy, persuading her to lower her wand, and when that was not enough, she gave Pansy's arm a firm tug.

"It's not what you think," Hermione explained. "They need my help. I can… access something they need."

"The place you keep disappearing to, you mean?" Daphne prompted, her honey-sweet voice shrewd with observations that Hermione had obviously been a fool to underestimate.

She had been a fool several times over, it seemed, for underestimating them at all. Worse, it occurred to Hermione that if Daphne and Pansy considered themselves complicit in her death, she would certainly have been in theirs. How many times had she disappeared without a trace, leaving them to bear the consequences of Voldemort's temper? The fact that they remained unharmed was a mark of their deftness. Perhaps even their duplicity had been little more than a method of staying alive.

Abruptly, Hermione registered an additional layer of concern. How could she protect all these people—a cowering Neville and Ron, the twin shadows of Daphne and Pansy, the as-yet unknown saga of Theo and Harry—from the ravenous appetite of an inhuman creature whose only desire seemed to be wreckage and power? She could hide them, certainly, but for how long?

Once again, it fell to Hermione to sort something out.

"Once I let you in, you'll have to wait there until I say it's safe," she said eventually, fitting the pieces together and grimacing through the high risk of failure in her plan. "Do you understand?"

"You're not coming?" Neville asked, alarmed. "But he'll kill you!"

"Only if I let him," said Hermione.

"Um," said Ron uncertainly, but Pansy gave a lazy flick of her wand, conjuring two silk ties to fashion over the eyes of the unwelcome gentlemen before turning to Hermione and Daphne.

"Perhaps the crimson silk?" Daphne suggested to Pansy, who gave a brusque nod.

"Crimson silk," Pansy confirmed, throwing open the doors of the wardrobe to withdraw the gown, and then, with a telling glance at Hermione, instructed her wordlessly to put aside her nonsense and leave the professionals to their work.

Hermione figured that was fair. After all, only a courtier's daughter would know what to wear to make a deal with a devil. Anything she chose on her own would be too informal by half.

* * *

"I beg your pardon," Draco said. "What did you just say, my precious pearl? I'm going to need to hear it again, I'm afraid, owing to your preeminent lunacy."

Of course he would make this difficult. It was so very Draco that she couldn't tell at first whether she was more infuriated or relieved to hear it.

"I said," Hermione repeated testily, "I need to speak to your demon."

"Oh good, so my hearing isn't the problem, it's your sparkling sense of humor. What a relief," declared Draco, muttering it under his breath. "Well, a hysterical thought as always, my decadent slice of treacle, but I feel I must inform you th-"

He broke off, choking, and glared at her for a moment, the angry grey in his gaze sharpening brightly to scarlet.

"Hello, Voldemort," said Hermione, as the demon forced Draco's mouth into its own cruel, unsettling smile.

"Hermione," he said, causing her to fight a wince of the usual pain, and then he stepped towards her, wrapping Draco's narrow fingers around her throat. She caught sight of the flecks of ink staining the beds of his nails and the peaks of his knuckles, wondering briefly what he had been writing or drawing or painting, but shoved aside the thought of him for now.

It wasn't the demon's host she needed to appeal to. This time, it was the demon itself.

"Wait," she gargled as his nails dug into her windpipe. By now, she knew that Voldemort craved drama almost as much as he made demands for her; he wanted her dead, yes, but not in any efficient manner. He would listen to her if she presented something interesting enough. "The Hallows," she managed, struggling to force the words from her throat.

Abruptly, the pressure stopped, though he didn't release her.

"What do you know about the Hallows?" Voldemort's features on Draco's face were no less disturbingly perfect than ever, and they had taken a turn for the sinister. He had a hunger at the mention of the artefacts that she had never seen before from Draco; a look of temptation and starvation that rendered the expression inescapably manic.

"You know I have one," Hermione said, as Voldemort turned Draco's head, glancing down at her finger. "I know where the other two are, and I can get them for you."

His grip tightened again, nearly shocking her into choking. "I can get them myself."

"Ac-" Too tight. "Act-" Reluctantly, the demon loosened his hold. "Actually," Hermione gasped, retching quietly, "you can't. They're somewhere only I can go."

"Then take me." A thin smile. "I can force you."

"No, you can _kill_ me," Hermione corrected. "But if you do, I'll be dead without you getting what you wanted. And whatever power you get from me, it'll die eventually, too. I'm no less mortal than Draco," she reminded him. "I will only be a temporary fix, and how many times do you expect to do this before people start to suspect?"

"Oh, little witch. I can do more than kill you." His amusement was eerie and too-perfect, lacking Draco's finer details: the unexpected twist when he found something funny. The dimples of his cheeks when he frowned in thought. Even the insolent scowl, which was too petulant to be anything but his own, would have been preferable to the demon's look of satisfaction. "I can torture you, and everyone you love."

"I can hide them. I have already hidden them." She tried to focus on the pearl of truth, obscuring her concerns for the others—McGonagall. Ginny. Everyone. "You'll never find them without my help."

Voldemort considered this, eyes narrowing to slits. "What is it you want in return?"

"Time. Safety." Easy things, and the demon did not seem surprised to hear them. "I want a truce between us while I find the others. A detente."

"I will not wait forever," Voldemort warned. He flashed Draco's perfect teeth at her, sneering, "Whatever trickery you think to gain from this—"

"It isn't a trick. I'll find the Hallows." She would, too. That much was true. "You have no reason to doubt that I will. I have only to lose if I don't, don't I?"

The demon considered it. "Why should I not stay in this princelet's body to watch you, then? He is much more useful when he is quietly put away."

"No," Hermione said stonily. "I won't do it if you keep him locked away. He's part of the deal."

"Then perhaps I'll just kill you, then," said Voldemort, sighing. "Seems much more enjoyable than deals."

"Fine, then kill me. But you won't have the Hallows," Hermione warned. "And I have given instructions to the others to stay hidden."

"Others?" The demon's smile twisted wryly. "You mean Theo Nott, I presume."

"I can keep them safe," Hermione said, confessing nothing. "I _have_ kept them safe, and I promise you, for as long as I do, you will never find them."

The demon stepped away from her then, slowly undertaking a circle around her. She felt a probing in her mind, like the scratch of a nail against a door, and brusquely shoved him out.

"Ah," said Voldemort, his voice sending another throb of pain through her head. "You've learned something, haven't you? Perhaps I was right to leave you alive. The more powerful you become, the more useful you are to me."

She was fairly certain it was a taunt, but it cost her nothing to let him believe it. "Keep me alive, then. Long enough to find the Hallows."

"And if I lose my patience first?"

"So be it," said Hermione. "If you kill me, we both lose."

The grimace she got in response was the closest Voldemort had ever come to Draco's natural recalcitrance. It seemed she had made a valid point, which annoyed him. In some respect, it annoyed her, too. Aligning with a demon was definitely not her favorite pastime, even if it happened (in this _one_ instance) to be right.

After a moment, Voldemort sighed, stepping towards her, and leaned in close, taking a slow, deeply unsettling inhale from the side of her neck.

"Where did you get the ring?" he asked, and for a moment, she shivered.

"It's… mine," she said, suddenly finding the words difficult to say. It slid from her tongue like syrup, thickly distressing. "Mine."

"Liar." Voldemort chuckled in her ear. "You've learned something, little witch, but not everything." His lips—_Draco's_ lips—brushed the side of her jaw, lingering there. "I can hardly decide whether I hope for you to succeed or fail, Hermione. The prospect of having you to myself is nearly as delicious as destroying you."

Hermione shuddered and slid out of his reach, or tried to. "Do we have a deal, then?"

She couldn't look at him. Not like this; not with him so close.

"You still haven't given me a reason, you know," Voldemort said with a sigh, disappointed she no longer wanted to play with him. "Surely you don't think I'm stupid enough to think you wish me to possess the Hallows."

"It will keep me safe," Hermione said staunchly. "I don't like it, but that's what matters. So long as I can keep everyone safe—"

"No, that's not it." She turned her head sharply as Voldemort laughed, curling a finger below her jaw. "Do you want _him_, little witch? Is that what this is?" The sound resolved itself shrilly in her head, invading her. "You poor stupid girl. You'll die trying to save your precious prince from a monster, won't you?"

She would hear his laughter in her nightmares for a lifetime; several lifetimes.

Still, she forced her hand outstretched. "Do we have a deal?"

There was a moment, a hitch, and then Draco's fingers closed around it.

"Deal," said Voldemort.

Then Hermione stumbled back and ran, clearing the bleariness from her vision as Voldemort's mocking laughter rang in her wake.

* * *

"It's the feelings you've got to be rid of," Theo said. "Pushing your feelings aside, or feeling nothing, is much more difficult than obscuring your thoughts. Thoughts are one thing—they require translation—but emotion is quite another. It can be invaded more easily than anything else."

It had been a week since Hermione had made the deal with Voldemort. Little had changed, really. The demon had stopped summoning her—a consequence of their deal—and Draco had not summoned her, either. He was as reluctant to meet her eye as she was to meet his, and she wasn't surprised. She figured it was only a matter of time before Voldemort revealed himself again, and it remained unclear which one of them dreaded it most.

She had obviously lied to Voldemort in part when she made the deal. She fully intended to find the Hallows, as she'd said, but she certainly had no intent to hand them over. With two of the Hallows accounted for, that only left one to find: the wand. By the time they found it, she reasoned, _they_ would be able to take over the use of the Hallows; to see, firstly, whether the power that legend attributed to them actually existed, and if it did, then they'd be able to destroy Voldemort for good.

"I'm never going to get this," Hermione grumbled under her breath, shaking out the pains of physical exertion. She'd done fine with Voldemort, lying through her teeth to protect her friends, but Theo had broken her defenses three times now, which was hardly a sensation she enjoyed. He was intentionally luring her into sensations that were easy to manipulate, trying to help her improve, but her deepest emotional trenches weren't exactly places she liked to revisit.

Abandonment. Loneliness. Insecurity. Fear. She shook away the remnants of her failures with a scowl. "I hate this. It's impossible."

"That's the spirit," said Pansy, not looking up from the book she'd plucked from Harry's hands about the treasures of the royal family.

Hermione stifled a growl, rounding on her. "Do you have any _helpful_ input, Lady Pansy?"

"Yes," said Pansy, flipping the page with one finger. "Be better."

"Great." Some things had been much easier when Hermione had been the sort of queen the others weren't allowed to talk back to. "Anything else?"

"I think you're doing wonderfully," said Daphne absently, who had been poring over the archives of the crown's vaults, which she had magnificently nicked from her father's chambers. She was astoundingly light-fingered for a well-born member of the aristocracy; Hermione suspected she would have made an exceptional criminal in another life.

"Well, thank you for the encouragement, Daphne, but I suppose it's time for dinner," Hermione said with a sigh, wishing she did not have to contribute so foolishly to the monarchy's bizarre rituals. Every day the nobles who lavished themselves in the wealth of the palace were spending countless amounts of Draco's money, blaming their existential malcontent on the dreadful commoners and then continuously presenting her with ideas about how to destroy Minister Dumbledore. She'd have advised Draco to do something about it, but even Hermione could see how little interest he took in the flaws of his ignoble courtiers.

"Shall we?" she prompted, and Daphne leapt forward with a nod, Pansy rising grudgingly to her feet only after carefully marking her place in the book, tossing it back to Harry. "Thanks," Hermione added to Theo, who shrugged. "And keep looking," she informed the others. "If we're going to find out where the wand's been hidden—"

"You could ask Draco," said Harry, which was such an unlikely suggestion the others all turned to stare at him. "What?" he demanded of Theo, who was closest to him. "You said yourself that he would have been the one to hide it. Why wouldn't he tell her, if he wants Voldemort gone just as badly?"

"Because if he knew, there would be no way to guarantee Voldemort _wouldn't_ know," said Theo irritably. "Wasn't that the whole reason for leaving me behind in the first place? That I was too close to Draco," he drawled with obvious unresolved bitterness, "and therefore too dangerous to have around?"

That, Hermione thought, was too close to punchable territory to remain in the room.

"Well, we'll all have a good think about it," she said, too-brightly. "See you tonight, then."

With that, she pushed open the polished glass of her vanity and clambered out, sealing it shut behind Daphne and Pansy.

"Now, something not too ridiculous, please," Hermione told them, giving them each an accusatory warning. "I'm starting to think you're putting me in those dreadful pastels just to have a laugh."

"But you make such a stunning vision in buttercream," said Pansy. "So cakelike and frosted."

"Plus," Daphne added, unsuccessfully pretending to find less humor in this than Pansy did, "you should have _seen_ the way Millicent looked in her terrible imitation of your last—"

"Hello, my clever shining moonbeam," said Draco, prompting the three of them to a sudden, startled halt. "Wherever have you been?"

He was sitting in a chair he had clearly conjured for the exact purpose of startling them when they arrived, legs thrown over the side as he theatrically turned the page of his book. He was already dressed for dinner—a sapphire blue brocade this time, setting off the grey of his eyes—and had clearly made himself quite comfortable, going so far as to toss his boots in a pile across the room. By the looks of it, he had been waiting for several hours.

"Oh, Your Majesty," Daphne said, remembering herself first and dropping into a curtsey, followed by Pansy. "I… shall we, ah—"

"So this is why you have no new reports for me, hm? So be it," Draco said exhaustedly, waving them away like flies. "I no longer need your help if you're going to spoil it by siding with my magnanimous bride. Go, go," he added, gesturing them away. "I'd like a moment alone with my charitable queen."

Hermione braced herself. She'd already made a deal with Voldemort, so this wasn't necessarily fear for her life, but still. It was… unnerving, for him to be in her private rooms.

"Your Majesty, it is our responsibility to dress Her Majesty for dinner," said Pansy, picking up the signs of Hermione's distress. "Perhaps after we have—"

"I can dress my own dutiful wife, can't I? How hard can it be," grumbled Draco, rising to his feet and plucking a gown from her wardrobe, selecting an ice-grey satin. "There, and—" He snapped his fingers, summoning a pair of silver embroidered shoes. "Done," he said, giving Pansy and Daphne a pointed glance. "Will that be sufficient, or will I have to remind the two of you which of us is king?"

They dropped into another set of curtseys as Daphne pressed something surreptitiously into Hermione's hand.

"Your Majesty," they said, and exited the room, shutting the dressing room doors behind them as Draco summoned the small embroidery shears from Hermione's hand.

"What a steadfast little sneak she is," he remarked, turning the shears to a thin paper butterfly. It danced briefly on his knuckles before floating away, disappearing in a glitz of dusty haze. "Anyway," he said, turning to Hermione, "I thought we ought to have a little chat, my tender lamb."

Hermione stiffened. "About what, exactly? And I do have to get dressed," she pointed out, reaching to take the gown from his hands.

He tilted his head, and in no less than a blink, the gown in his hand had replaced itself with the one she currently wore, which he waved back into the wardrobe.

"Shoes?" Hermione prompted irritably.

Draco smiled thinly at her.

Then he dropped to one knee, holding out a hand.

"You're hiding him, aren't you?" he said.

She stared down at him, a little taken aback by the mystifying combination of things he'd done and said.

"What?"

"Foot," he said, beckoning. "Give it to me."

"But—"

"Never mind," he said, and shoved the fabric of her gown aside, taking her ankle brusquely in his hand. "Steady," he added when she wobbled, shifting uneasily to the other foot while gathering her obstructionary skirts in her hands. Draco, unfazed by the obvious difficulty of managing her wardrobe, slid the shoe from her heel, tossed it aside, and replaced it with the silver one, securing it in place. "There," he said, "and for what it's worth, I'm pleased. Keep him safe." He slid his thumb over the bone of her ankle, eyeing it a moment, and added, "I hope you're very happy together."

He released her, gesturing for her other foot. This time, reluctantly, she gave it to him, placing it in his palm while he carefully slid the practical (_more_ practical, anyway) day slipper loose, setting it down beside him.

"You really think I'm having an affair with Theo?" she asked, unsure what she wanted his answer to be.

He didn't glance up, instead focusing his attention on fitting her toes perfectly into the silver shoe. It was an intricate one, and upon her first careful consideration of it, she realized it was not one she previously owned. He must have made it, somehow. Transfigured it from one of the others, or charmed it into being, all in the brief moment it had taken to pretend it meant nothing at all.

"It doesn't matter," he said crisply, settling her foot in the shoe and standing up so sharply she nearly tumbled back in a daze. "Be sure to hide him well," he said, and then, to her surprise, "Is it true you've learned occlumency?"

"I—" She broke off. "How did you—?"

"The demon," he said, "is very impressed with you. Still, I hope you've learned properly." He considered her with a slow, even glance, snapping his fingers to settle a delicate silver necklace onto her breastbone that looked, from the reflection she could see across the room, as if it had been made from stars.

"Most people don't know that keeping someone out is actually much more difficult a task than it needs to be," Draco said, loosening a tendril of her curls to float whimsically around her face. "Deception is easier," he said, doing the same to the other side, "and misdirection easiest of all. Common maneuvers, really. Guarding things closely only makes people want to break inside. Now, my winsome little kitten," said Draco, ostensibly satisfied with her appearance, "shall we go to dinner?"

She hadn't been this close to him since she'd saved his life. No, she had been closer than this to Voldemort, but somehow that was not the same. That had not been like this; it had been something unsettling, that was for certain, but now she was another kind of undone.

"The nicknames," she said. "The terms of endearment. Those are misdirection?"

"I can't say I've thought much about it," he said. A perfunctory reply. "I simply am what I am having learned what I've learned. Now, as for the rest—"

"You spent a lifetime making a liar of yourself," Hermione murmured. "The demon doesn't know where to look, does it, because it doesn't actually know what's true? Perhaps even you don't know what's true."

"Truth," Draco said dismissively, "is unimportant. Few people look for it."

"That doesn't diminish its value."

"Doesn't it?"

"Draco," Hermione said, and his mouth tightened warily. "I know when you're telling the truth."

It took him a moment. He steadied himself before dragging his grey gaze to hers, though what came out of his mouth wasn't at all what she'd expected to hear.

"I think there is a way you could kill me," he said, and she blinked. "The demon would survive, but it would have no body, and therefore it would be powerless until it found one. It would be difficult, but I think you could overwhelm its defenses if you timed it well enough. You'd have to exsanguinate me," he said, and Hermione flinched, fighting a wave of nausea at the thought. "The demon would have to produce blood from nothing, which would take considerable effort. Also, I've noticed it doesn't recover as easily from burns, so fire would help, and if you stabbed me through the heart first—"

"Draco," Hermione said, wanting to be sick. "Please don't—"

"If you stabbed me through the heart first," Draco repeated, continuing on, "it would shut down all my functions. Next you'd probably have to destroy my kidney; it's the most powerful magical organ besides the heart, given its function of purifying my blood. Again, exsanguination will be key, but—"

"Draco, _please_—"

"—I think if you had help, you could do it. I'd ask you to try to kill me in some less painful way first, though it doesn't particularly matter," he said neutrally. "The demon would probably revive me several times throughout the process of dying, so it's best if I simply regard pain as a foregone conclusion. You'll have to at least cut off my usefulness, my access to magic. There's no getting around that. The important thing will be making it as difficult as possible for the demon to restore me to health, so—"

"Draco," she said, and only after she registered she'd beaten a fist into his chest did she realize she had already taken hold of him, one hand curled in the material of his shirt. "I wouldn't, I can't, I have no wish t-" She took a gulp of air, trying and failing to calm herself through the images of him broken and bloody, tossed without care to the flames. "I couldn't, Draco, I won't, and I—"

He took her face in one hand, eyeing her closely. As if she were bleeding, and he was trying to find the source of her pain.

"Please," she said, biting back anger, or sadness. "Please. Don't talk about your life as if it means nothing."

"But it doesn't."

"It does!"

"But it doesn't. Not really. And anyway, without me you and Theo can—"

"Stop. Please, just stop!"

The exchange, the effort at keeping her emotions out of it, was so utterly depleting she went ragged in his arms, falling into him.

He went rigid at first, catching her numbly, without affection.

Then, slowly, he rested his chin atop her head, drawing one hand up to float carefully, uncertainly, over her hair.

"So long as I'm alive, you are bound to me," he said quietly. "I do not wish to hold you to the promise you should never have been forced to make."

She shut her eyes, exhaling.

"Whatever deal you've made to keep yourself safe," he continued, "whatever you have offered, it's only temporary. You will need something more permanent, and if that means my life will be the cost, then—"

She snaked her arms around his neck, holding him tightly, and he stopped.

"I," he began, and froze, bewildered. "What's this?" he managed, half-angrily, and she pulled away to glare at him.

"A hug, you stupid prince," she told him. "You clearly need one."

"I most certainly do not, you vainglorious sunflower," he scoffed. A tousle of his golden curls had fallen into his eyes, obscuring one for a moment, and she brushed it away. "What I need is to be demonically vacated, and seeing as you have no use for me—"

"I have a use for you," Hermione said. "I want to know where your father's wand is."

"It's missing, dawn of my soul," said Draco, shrugging. "There, now you're done with me."

"You're lying," she growled, exasperated, "or at least not being truthful—"

"Well, is there a difference? Only a structural one, at best—"

"I'm not going to kill you," she snapped. "For one thing, I can't."

"Well, not with that attitude," said Draco, and she rolled her eyes.

"For _another_, I think you're more useful than you claim to be," she said. "All I need is the wand, and you're the only one who could conceivably be of any help, whether you're lying to me or not! So, if you really want me to find a permanent solution—and truly, I can't believe I have to specify this," she said, hurling a scowl in his direction, "but if you want to help me, you'll have to _stay alive_, so—"

She broke off as he suddenly bent his head, the motion paused just shy of touching.

His forehead was pressed to hers; she catalogued the parts of him one by one, the arrhythmic quality of her chest against his. The placement of his hands; one curled around the left side of her face, the other resting fragilely on the necklace he had given her. No—the necklace he had _made_ for her. His nose slid upwards along the length of hers, brushing over her cheek and returning. His lips were so close she could taste the motion of their parting, running her tongue over the vacancy of a breath.

"May I kiss you?" he said. "You needn't promise not to kill me if I do." The words were like blackberries and cream, rich and sweet and tart. She savored them, swallowed them, licked them from her lips.

Still, he was king enough to make demands even while he was humbly requesting. "Don't ask me why," he said.

"I know why," she mumbled without thinking, and briefly, she thought she felt him smile.

His mouth did not taste like lies, nor was it strictly sweetness. His kiss was all longing, buttery and smooth, hesitancy mixing for a moment with the spice of desperation. She could feel him teetering on the brink of giving in, of letting go, and his restraint—the moment before the rapture, or the rupture—was astounding, mesmerizing, debilitating. If he had a flavor, if there was something tactile here to explain, it could only be found in bursts of color, in sensations half-remembered, half-unknown. The green of the ivy in the Hogwarts courtyard. The black-tinted-blue of his midnight silk. The silver of his eyes falling to hers, the gold of his hair, flashing and flickering. She kissed him and breathed him in.

There was a flutter inside her, a spark, alighting like madness, like wonder. Her arms tightened around his neck and he gave in, keening into the shape of her, torn and undecided whether it was his role to push or pull. His hands, restless, couldn't find a place to land; they tucked behind her ear, traced her bodice, floated over her hips and danced around to brush her spine. She thought of his touch around her heels—the brief, tender gentleness of his fingers—and caught one of his hands with hers, lacing them together. There, she thought, interlocking his fingers with hers. Now you know where you belong.

There was a moment she felt him stiffen, poised at the brink, and then he pulled away, forcing himself back a step. He stared at her for a moment, fearful-angry-sad, and then turned.

"I have to go," he said bluntly. "I'll see you at dinner."

She blinked away oblivion, foggily resurfacing from whatever hallucination they had been.

"What?"

But he was already gone without looking back, the glint of his hair vanishing from view in less than a handful of strides.

* * *

It had been the laughter in his mind, rich and silken with mockery.

_Oh, princelet._

He tore himself away without another glance, heart pounding. How was he to know the difference between his demon and his own madness? He had almost been wild with her, uncontrolled, tempestuous and savage. He had almost let go entirely—had almost been lost to the storm of his own wanting—and what would have happened if he had?

Some doors could not be opened without danger flooding the entire house.

"She is only buying time," Draco said. "You know that. Even if she found the Hallows, she would not give them to you." Nor would she find them, either. She may have had two, but she would not find the other. He would not allow that to happen.

_Does it matter how much time she buys, princelet? If she fails me, she will be punished._

"No."

There was a pause; a lag of disbelief.

_No?_

The deal she had made was not enough. Not for him. "She told me which of the Hallows she has." Draco cleared his throat. "My darling bride has misstepped. She has all but revealed her source."

Restlessly, the demon's curiosity unfurled. _And what are you proposing, then?_

"A trade," Draco said flatly. "Potter's life in exchange for hers."

_What makes you so sure you can find him? You lost him once before._

"Yes, but this time is different. She wants my help, so let me give her a reason to trust me. She wants to trust me, and when she does, I'll give you Potter in exchange for her. But she," Draco exhaled, "cannot be harmed. She is too useful, and I need a queen. I am king, and I need a queen."

The demon laughed again, curling a tendril of sympathy like a chokehold around Draco's thoughts.

_You cannot bear to lose her, can you? Poor little princelet. I warned you not to get attached._

Draco said nothing.

_Fine,_ the demon sighed, murmuring it approvingly in his ear. _Then bring me Harry Potter, and I will leave her to you._

She would never forgive him once he did. That much was obvious. She would never look at him again, and therefore, he would never harm her.

The feel of her, feather-light and songbird-sweet, floated from his throat like ash.

"It's a deal, then," Draco said, swallowing the taste of her and forcing it into a vault.

* * *

_**a/n: **__I may have to skip next week's update, owing to two deadlines and a family visit all falling inconveniently on the 15th, so my apologies if that's the case. I will be back to our regularly scheduled programming the following Tuesday! For rcgvnseyiii, SuperMegaFoxyAwesomeHot2001 (I will literally never forget that username), bzoink, and crowkat, for enjoying my playlist. Thank you for reading!_


	7. Devil in the Details

**Chapter 7: Devil in the Details**

So they each made a deal to save the other, then, unbeknownst to themselves? How upsettingly noble. Is this to be some sort of star-crossed love story? A rather bleak edition of afternoon tea if so, even for your grandmother.

"Noble? No one in this story is noble," scoffs your grandmother. "Well, they are aristocrats, perhaps, but the distinction there is key."

Well, true enough. They each have an agenda, so perhaps noble isn't the right word. Prince Draco wants his freedom (that much is perfectly understandable, though you have your doubts about how he plans to get it) and Lady Vengeance wants… what, exactly?

"Well, that's the trouble," says your grandmother, looking quite troubled indeed. "I'm not sure any of us were at all clear what her intentions were at the time. Perhaps Lady Vengeance least of all… though, might I remind you, petal, that she was not much older than you."

You suppose you wouldn't have enjoyed being in Lady Vengeance's position, had it been your own; she certainly had any number of problems to choose from. Still, understandable to find her companions wanting, or to mistrust her husband's intentions, but why not turn to the Minister, at least? You are the daughter of a Minister for Magic, after all. You know that Papa's oath to serve the wizarding world was undertaken with utmost gravity and devotion.

"Funny you should mention the Minister," remarks your grandmother, finding it rather dismayingly comical indeed. She stirs a little lemon in her tea, half-smiling to herself. "I suppose you must find it all rather silly. Why, if Lady Vengeance had simply turned to the Minister with her concerns," she postures daintily, "then she'd no longer have to worry about any of it, would she? And certainly no _new_ problems would arise."

By your grandmother's tone, you suspect things did not quite go as planned.

"No, petal, they rather did not," your grandmother confirms with a chuckle. "But then again," she murmurs, looking like a woman who's known her share of ironies, "one day you'll come to realize that nothing ever does."

* * *

_**The Growing Turmoil of King Draco I, 1725  
**__Malfoy Palace, Wiltshire, England  
Seven Months Before The Fall_

For days that stretched into weeks, Hermione saw little to nothing of Draco.

On the one hand, she was aware that the distance was probably best, seeing as her husband did necessitate the unappetizing presence of a demon with whom she had struck a somewhat unfavorable bargain. At some point the demon would collect, and Hermione had rather carelessly failed to determine an endpoint; mostly owing to the fact that she hadn't the slightest idea what period of time would be appropriate for uncovering mythological artifacts. Would it require days? Months? Moon cycles? Dynasties? She wondered if demons had any concept of the mortal lifespan. Was it possible Voldemort could be made to wait until she died of natural causes? Or would it keep her alive, as it did Draco, until she succeeded? The rules were rather vexingly unclear.

However—and this was the other hand now—Draco _had_ kissed her, and he was also married to her, and surely one of those things should be considered significant enough to merit occasional instances of conversation, though Hermione was unable to provide herself a good reason why. What difference did it make whether they spoke? She asked herself at least four times daily why it mattered, encountering less fruition each time. Obviously they were not in love, nor anything close to it, and it was not as if she dreamt of his kiss at night, or pondered it while Daphne and Pansy dressed her, plucking things from her wardrobe that prompted her mind to wander to the brush of Draco's fingers along her calf. It was nonsense, of course, to suggest that she had enjoyed the brief contact between them; enjoyed was not the right word. Consumed, more like. Devoured? No, surely not. Surely having kissed him in the first place was nothing more than some obscure, tormentous symptom of her captivity. Was Draco not an intolerable grump with all the conceit of a loud-feathered peacock? She did not love him. She did not miss him. She did not want him. None of the above.

That being said, he was clearly doing everything he could to remain stubbornly and inconveniently handsome. Why else would he wear those colors so suited to his eyes, or let his hair grow long, the curls tumbling onto his forehead until he swept them carelessly away? Not that she was unduly influenced by his looks. Far from it. Each time their eyes met she was reminded how ghastly his manner was with his courtiers, always suggesting "take it up with my wife," or "what has the queen had to say about this?" and then turning to her as if he could so easily entrust her with everything. How dare he, honestly? What nerve he had, treating her as if she mattered; as if she had a mind of her own, when hardly anyone had ever believed her capable of anything. It was a consequence of laziness, clearly, and an obvious intolerance for the impracticalities of kingship (primarily: the business of kingship itself), and true, Draco could have passed things along to his advisors when he noticed Hermione gaining confidence (and he certainly noticed, too; his eyes were always on her when she was busy wrangling his courtiers, only to slide listlessly away when her gaze was drawn to him) but he hadn't, and…

Bollocks. Harry was speaking again.

"Hm, what?" Hermione said, jolting out of her miniature coma. "Sorry, I was just thinking about—" _May I kiss you? You needn't promise not to kill me if I do. _"Well, never mind what I was thinking about, go on," she snapped impatiently, as Harry frowned at her, bewildered.

"Nott's just finished telling me about Hogwarts," he said, gesturing to Theo's entrance behind him. "Apparently he found nothing."

"Which I knew," Theo added gruffly, glaring at Harry. The two had grown increasingly at odds since their… not reconciliation, obviously. Reunion, perhaps. They now disagreed, loudly, on a constant basis, which was beginning to flood Hermione with a new and inglorious frustration. It was why she had agreed when Harry suggested Theo search the mirrored version of Hogwarts to begin with. "Draco wouldn't have hidden _both_ the wand and the stone at Hogwarts," Theo argued.

"Well, it was worth a look," said Harry, to which Theo's expression contemptuously disagreed. "And anyway, it was only a couple of days, wasn't it?"

"A couple of days without my giving the queen her occlumency lessons," Theo countered, gesturing exasperatedly to Hermione before they both promptly forgot she was in the room. "Which we all know you're completely useless at!"

"If I may," said Ron, inserting himself at a rather unlikely moment to raise a hand from the desk beside the far wall. "I did gather something rather interesting, I suspect—"

"Not now, Weasley," snarled Theo, just as Harry snapped, "Then tell us, Ron!"

"Oh. Erm." Ron glanced at Hermione, who, as the highest ranking person in the room, had come to grudgingly embrace her unfortunate role as appointed distributor of impatient gestures; in this case, _yes, fine, go ahead, then._ "Well, I suppose it's not _new_, exactly, but doesn't the Elder Wand have some sort of… stipulation attached? Right of conquest, I suppose one might say—"

"It has to be won," Theo confirmed, in a derisive tone suggesting Ron was the most idiotic person who had ever deigned to open his idiot mouth. "Don't tell me it took you months to arrive at that very obvious conclusion—"

"Don't talk to Ron like that," Harry said hotly, as Ron lifted a finger again, only to be interrupted. "It's not his fault if he's not been paying attention!"

"In _what way_ is it not his fault?" Theo demanded, rounding on Harry again. "So this you chose to keep around while I was perfectly expendable, given my preexisting and, dare I say, _preeminent_ understanding of the situat-"

"Biscuits?" asked Neville, who had ostensibly just come back from making some.

"SHUT UP," said Harry and Theo in unison.

"Children," interrupted Hermione, rising to her feet, "Please. Ronald," she said, turning to him, "if you might elaborate, please? Expeditiously," she added when his mouth opened with markers of hesitation. "Let us all collectively behave in accordance with the presumption that I do not have all day."

"Well, I was only thinking, possibly, that… whoever killed Lucius must now be the rightful owner of the wand," Ron forced out in a rush, recognizing Hermione's motion to hurry it along, "and therefore perhaps the rightful owner hid it where no one would ever find it, which is why none of us can dig it up."

"We already know who killed Lucius," Theo said, not bothering to transfer his glare from Harry to Ron, though it remained unchanged. "We know it was Voldemort. Who else would it have been?"

"Well—" Again, Ron broke off, hesitating, and only then did both Harry and Theo turn to look at him. "What if it… wasn't?"

"Ron, old boy, I had every faith in you at the start, but that's absurd," Harry said with outstretched patience, while Theo only managed a quiet, "Huh."

"What does that mean, 'huh'?" Hermione asked, turning to Theo.

"Well, we _think_ it was Voldemort," Theo said, "but what if it was actually… Draco?"

"I—" Hermione stopped. "What?"

"We already suspect that Lucius tried to kill Voldemort in Draco's body," Theo said, "but we _assumed_ that it was Voldemort who killed Lucius to keep Draco alive, as the demon's clearly done before. But what if it was actually Draco who killed Lucius?"

The idea that Hermione's initial estimation of Draco—that he was arrogant and ambitious to the point of violent patricide—might have been correct was briefly disconcerting. It was difficult to replace the Draco in her mind (specifically, the one that had kissed her) with the one who might have been a murderer all along.

"But," she began, wading through her dizzying opposition, "but then why would Draco have been so despondent when he told me about his father? Either he's a very good actor," she determined grimly, shivering now to think what else he might have intentionally misled her with, "or his father _did_ matter somewhat to him, so—"

"Well, it's certainly possible Draco killed Lucius for normal murder reasons; revenge or rage or some other somesuch," said Theo. "But what if he knew about the wand, and therefore knew that whoever killed Lucius would come to rightfully possess it?"

The possibility that Draco was exceedingly clever and not just vengefully bloodthirsty was a vast improvement on the wild contortions of her feelings. "Well, good," Hermione exhaled, "that's… Well," she amended, "it's not as if much has changed in knowing that, but—"

"Actually, it has," Harry said with a pensive frown. "Because if Draco is the rightful possessor of the Elder Wand, you'll have to get it from him."

"I—" Hermione broke off. "What, me?"

"Yes, you," Theo said, unhelpfully choosing that moment to agree with Harry for the first time in weeks. "None of the rest of us can get to him, can we? Not without being shredded to bits by Voldemort first."

"But," she began, and faltered. "But won't I have to…?"

"Seduce him?" Neville suggested amicably, offering her a biscuit.

"Please be quiet, Neville, I'm thinking," said a bristling Hermione, who had, in fact, been thinking just that. She would need to have a moment alone with Draco, like the time she'd rescued him from his assassination, but of course this would be much more important, and therefore much more intimate. She would need him to be _vulnerable_, as he had been before, and to be close to her. Quite close, in fact. Physical proximity wasn't exactly paramount to this sort of thing, but it certainly couldn't hurt. Most forms of legilimency were best accomplished in tight spaces. Perhaps in low lighting. Possibly in places of concealment. How else, after all, would they be left alone? As king and queen, they were perpetually watched, unless she came to his bedchambers, or she to his. In which case she'd clearly have no choice but to _debauch_ herself, if she did indeed intend to save the world.

"You're asking me to do something positively despicable," she informed Harry and Theo, mistakenly addressing them as a unit until they each took pointed steps away from the other, severing their moment of peace. "You do realize that, don't you? And once I'm close to him, Voldemort will be even more likely to press me on the Hallows."

"You don't have to do anything indiscreet," Harry leapt to assure her, comforting as always. "I'd never suggest such a thing."

"Well… good," said Hermione stiffly. "As I wouldn't, anyway."

"You could simply ask him," Theo ventured, to which Hermione internally rolled her eyes. Ah yes, because Draco was so delightfully forthcoming, which everyone knew. She could simply _ask_ him, and there would be no need to put her hands on his bare skin at all. Honestly. "At very least," Theo suggested, "you could persuade him to tell you what happened the day his father died, couldn't you, to confirm our suspicions? He seems to trust you enough for that, and anyway, it might not be that difficult. After all, Draco is very—"

He hesitated, and Hermione frowned.

"What?" she prompted, a bit exasperated by all the dramatic pausing. "Draco is very _what_?"

Theo's mouth twitched, and he winced.

"Lonely," he said.

She understood in a glance that Theo's admission amounted to grievous, ruinous betrayal. For years he had been the young prince's only friend; an observation as base as the one he had just shared with her should not have been so treasonous to confess, only it was. She understood that it was.

"Oh." Hermione cleared her throat. "Oh yes, I see, well. You're right, then. I'll… simply ask him." She turned away, finding herself suddenly overwhelmed with a flood of ill-timed emotions. "I ought to get back, anyway. Good notes, Ron, and the rest of you, for heaven's sake, stop fighting," she flung at Neville in misplaced intemperance, lifting her chin and making her way through the mirror-palace to return to her proper chambers through her vanity.

Upon arrival, she heard a sharp, whispered retort as Pansy hastily stepped away from Daphne; skirts rustled too-quickly, guiltily, and Hermione let out an exhausted sigh.

"Not you two as well," she grumbled impatiently, as deduction seemed to suggest they'd been arguing once again. "Am I to spend all my time nannying the lot of you? I hope you have news," she added, unsure what to do with her own prickling temper. She remained uncertain what had unsettled her so thoroughly, but she softened; pleased, at least, that Daphne had returned from her errand. "Was your father of any use while you were away?"

"My father is generally useless," said Daphne, averting her gaze from Pansy's and tucking a loose curl away from one rosily flushed cheek. "It's one of his virtues, really. He rather leaves me alone, though Astoria was unfortunately not much help either."

Daphne, who had already done much glorious snooping through her father's things, had gone back to their manor house and then to Hogwarts (the true side, rather than the mirrored side, where Theo had been) in search of clues about the Hallows. Pansy had done a similar thing the previous week. Ultimately, none of the three of them knew precisely what they were looking for, but there were only so many books one could read in the palace library without suspecting that something in the care of the noble bloodlines must be out there, somewhere, among the noble bloodlines.

"Well, the boys had one useful observation, at least," Hermione sighed, collapsing into one of her velvet chairs. "They seem to think Draco might have killed his father himself."

"Oh, but that's quite an interesting thought," said Daphne with docile surprise, glancing up at Pansy. "Don't you think?"

"If he had, that would certainly explain why the wand is so well-hidden," Pansy observed in her dry, shadowed way, pointedly looking away from Daphne and to Hermione. Whatever argument they'd had, Pansy was clearly the more cross about it. "It would have to do his bidding. And if he charmed an invincible wand to conceal itself, the charm would be equally as invincible as the wand, wouldn't it?"

"It's not an invincible wand," corrected Daphne, prompting both women to glance at her. "It's an invulnerable one. The wand itself can't be defeated," she clarified with a pointed look at Hermione, "but the user can be, or else how would it change hands? The possessor of the wand always remains at risk."

The thought gave Hermione an unpleasant shudder. "But then, if the demon knew it would only have to kill Draco in order to possess one of the Hallows—"

She broke off, and Pansy's lips tightened.

"You ought to put that out of your head," said Pansy, eminently practical as always. "Better no one sees it."

Hermione grimaced, hoping her occlumency had improved enough to keep that, along with everything else, hidden. She doubted it; Theo was right that she couldn't afford any days without practice, particularly as her secrets only seemed to multiply by the hour. She had never had to shield her thoughts so closely before, and constantly being on her guard was exhausting, particularly for someone as unaccustomed to it as she was. Someday, and probably soon, she would need to be certain she was as invulnerable as the Elder Wand itself, which she wasn't at all at the moment.

"Let's just dress, shall we?" she beckoned glumly. "I do still have a husband to deceive."

"That, and a Minister to entertain," added Daphne. "I was told upon arrival that Dumbledore is here as a guest this evening."

Hermione groaned quietly; in the words of her very dear husband, what spectacular news! She could hardly imagine who had felt it necessary to summon the man who managed to be both the most and least popular Minister of his age, depending how much gold was in the vaults of those being asked.

"What on earth," Hermione demanded, "could _Dumbledore_ be invited to the palace for? Half the courtiers would happily eat him alive, or at least stab him on the floor of the Ministry."

"Perhaps His Majesty is in need of bloodsport," said Pansy with a shrug.

They all exchanged a glance, finding the observation to be entirely too true for comfort.

"Well, pick something that can withstand a stain, then," advised Hermione, wishing there could be a single evening in this palace where that was not of immediate concern.

* * *

Among the height of Draco's ongoing misfortunes was that no one, not even a demon, could actually be bored to death. It was a fact he knew better than most, having taken no steps to prevent it. For weeks Draco had watched Hermione closely from a distance, doing nothing—trying to make sense of her disappearances, that is, without putting her in any further danger—but it had become quite clear to him that wherever his lambent queen was going, he could not follow himself without the ring.

Unfortunate, really, that Draco could not think much about the ring or its power, and certainly not in depth; already the demon was growing restless with him, as it always did, despite his reassurances that he was busy kinging.

"We've got plenty of problems besides your thirst for omnipotence, you know," remarked Draco, making his way through the usual rooms. "Massive ones. The nobles positively loathe the Minister, and likewise, the Minister's off trying to overthrow the monarchy. It's unmitigated chaos here among the mortals, as you'd notice if you could desist in being so terrifically selfish."

_I could do with some mitigation_, said the demon crossly. _I don't suppose you'll let me kill that doddering old fool this time?_

"Certainly not publicly," said Draco. "Can't think what saintly Hermione would have to say about it if you did, though I would expect nothing so sweet as her usual dulcet tones. All she does lately is rile up my courtiers with her conceptions of 'fairness' and 'tolerance' and 'drastic redistribution of wealth,'" he remarked with palpable abhorrence, "so I can only assume Dumbledore is here at her invitation."

_I warned you, princelet, about giving your queen too much freedom. Her fear has subsided; I no longer sense it from afar. Your influence with her grows feeble. I taste from her less and less._

"Well, moderation is key, as they say," advised Draco, to which the demon replied with a needle-thin stab he suspected to be an eye roll of sorts. "Anyway, perhaps while Dumbledore's in residence, my dazzling wife will be more likely to slip up and reveal something of Potter's whereabouts. She trusts Dumbledore, I believe," he added offhandedly. "Probably because he's never tried to marry her or murder her in her bed."

_What abysmally low standards._

"Oh, I couldn't agree more," Draco remarked. "But, I suppose that's just how it is with women." Not that he knew any. "Or so I'm told." Not that anyone ever spoke to him. "Or so I've read in books, anyway." There, that part was true, at least.

_You'll have to come up with something, princelet, or I shall be forced to do something I'll regret. Not that I shall do so for long, of course, _the demon clarified, giving Draco's thoughts a patronizing stroke, _but momentarily I shall loathe the necessity of cruelty._

Draco had known this would happen—he gave the usual compulsory shiver at the demon's incorporeal touch—but he'd hoped to put it off as long as possible. He supposed he had done just that, given that the few weeks away were quite an indulgent head start; hopefully fair Hermione had managed something useful with her time.

"I've one idea in particular, in fact," Draco said, "though I'll require your compliance."

The demon bristled wordlessly, its opposition manifesting with a jab of pressure.

"Well, I've been right so far, haven't I?" Draco prompted. "It's me she trusts, not you. I've not been wrong about her yet." Even the demon had to admit he maintained a certain flair for accuracy, after all.

_And what sort of compliance do you require?_

"Well, my persevering wife is quite the industrious little thing, isn't she? She's been learning occlumency," commented Draco.

_Not well._

"No, not especially," Draco flippantly agreed. "My sterling bride is a jewel of duplicity, as we both know, but an unfinished one where it comes to glimpses of her better intentions."

_And what do you intend to do, then?_

"Teach her," Draco said, "properly."

_Which benefits me how?_

"What I know, you know," Draco reminded his demon. "If I am alone with her long enough, she will undoubtedly reveal something to us both."

The demon considered his offer.

_I know you will try to slither out of this somehow, _it said, the sense of its displeasure like a cymbal crash in Draco's mind. _You've grown reckless, even if you will not admit it. Whatever you learn, whatever pieces you take from her, you must hide nothing from me. I will have it, all of it, and if you fail, or if I suspect you of even an inkling of deception, our deal is broken. I tire of not having her, and of not having Potter, and quite frankly, I tire of you, princelet._

Well, this was magnificent as always. An eternal pleasure! The delights of demonic possession were so fruitfully evergreen.

"I'll find Potter," said Draco curtly, confident in his lack of option to do otherwise, if nothing else. "If by the end of this week I have not, you can have full use of my body for an entire day, to do whatever you wish. Would that please you?"

It did, evidently. The demon lapped silkily at his thoughts like cream.

_Very well_, the demon said, receding from Draco's thoughts like a tide. _Seven days this time._

Seven had better have magical significance; already this had been a stretch. There could be no more deals after this one, no more waiting. Either Hermione would finally dispatch him, or she would lead him to Harry Potter—which would be disastrous, of course, but she would be safe, and anyway, it wasn't Draco's fault if the world collapsed into a demonic whorl of chaos. He'd already done as much as he could, and nobody was giving him an ounce of credit.

Luckily his sprightly bride was a clever sort of witch, wasn't she? She'd come up with something, even if the something in question had to be seated across from her at dinner.

"Dumbledore," Draco said, arriving in his public drawing room at last and stretching out a hand for the Minister. "Welcome to court."

The demon was right about one thing, at least.

Draco had grown quite reckless indeed.

* * *

Dumbledore's presence at court was precisely as unsettling as Hermione had feared it would be. It was all such inconvenient timing, considering there was no doubt Draco _wouldn't_ suspect her of illicit misdeeds and therefore decline to talk to her. She was impatient to make it through the evening, sitting disinterestedly through Dumbledore's suggestions of altered secrecy clauses and creature reform while fixing one eye on Draco's unchanging expression.

Eventually, dinner dispersed for their evening of dancing. Per usual, Draco began to look restless, indicating his grand aspirations of retiring early to bed, but Hermione quickly took hold of his arm, tightening her fingers around it. He glanced up, skittish at her touch.

"I should like you to join me tonight, Your Majesty," she said, loud enough for the courtiers nearby—Nott and one of the others, perhaps Crabbe—to hear it. "Shall I have a little port called up before bed?"

"No," he said.

Then, after a moment's hesitation, "Whatever wine you have will be fine."

Promising. Hermione straightened, emboldened, and caught Pansy's eye across the room.

_Get on with it_, Pansy seemed to suggest, the height of detachment as ever.

"Would you like to dance, perhaps?" Hermione asked Draco, feeling prominently stupid. As if this dress—green tonight, like the royal Malfoy crest, in an effort to appeal to Draco's sensibilities—and this silly crown and all these people staring made it somehow lawful that she should have to shyly ask her beautiful husband if he might, perhaps, care to dance with her, the woman he had unblinkingly forced into marriage.

"Fine," he said, with exactly as much enthusiasm as she expected to receive. He held out a hand for hers, tucking one formally behind his back in a faultlessly courteous bow, and briefly, she had the strangest, most mundane curiosity of who had taught him how to dance. Had he had a teacher or something? An instructor? She wondered how much a demon would have enjoyed sitting through prepubescent dancing lessons and stifled the fleeting absurdity, shoving it aside.

Draco led her to the center of the floor; she curtseyed. His grip on her fingers was casual, loose, and then he transferred one hand to her waist.

"It didn't enjoy the lessons much," Draco murmured. "Though you'll notice I managed well enough regardless."

The music began, and Hermione tripped slightly, startled by his answer to her unspoken wondering. "What?"

"Do you mind?" he prompted, gesturing somewhat bewilderingly to the placement of their next steps. "You've improved, my peerless swan, but not quite enough to keep up."

He was waiting, expectant; the nearby quartet paused mid-pulse as their king came to a stop.

"Dancing, you mean? I suppose not," Hermione managed, which sounded, even to her, like breathless acquiescence. She felt the little tingle up her spine that meant he'd cast a charm to keep her on rhythm, and his mouth quirked, amused.

"Of course, my floral daydream," he said, letting his hand shift to the small of her back as the music swelled again.

He smelled, as he always did, of clean linens and leather, sage and bergamot and amber, and the velvet of his overcoat beneath her touch was predictably supple and smooth. The sensation of being close to him was, somehow, highly specific, carrying traces of an autumn breeze, blades of grass brushing her cheek, the sun fading early to bring with it the crispness of evening. Not like summer sunsets, which lingered and yawned.

"My mother taught me," Draco said in her ear, startling her. "I complained, of course, but she told me I would need it. Told me, specifically, that if I did not learn it well enough, I would forever have to watch my step."

He did not mean dancing, then. Or maybe he did; he had a masterly way of saying two things at once.

"I could teach you," Draco continued, turning her with such effortless elegance it nearly hurt to watch, much less to be the person in his arms. "If you can bear to replace Theo, that is."

She stiffened, guarded. "Can you promise we'll be alone?"

His mouth twitched. "Do you wish to be alone with me?"

She had the sense that she had already confessed as much, and therefore given herself away.

Not that it was such a bad thing. She had wanted him to be vulnerable with her, hadn't she? So it was necessary, in fact, to offer tit for tat. She could let him in just enough to make him believe he wasn't being kept at bay, and in doing so, he might provide some reciprocity. Here, have a little secret of mine, in exchange for a lethal one of yours.

"Just to teach me," she clarified, after parting and then returning as the steps of the dance required. "Right?"

They finished their dance in silence, the music settling gracefully to an end. She sank into a curtsey, and he, meanwhile, bent into a bow.

"Of course, my sacred sweetness," murmured Draco, grey gaze drawn up from below his curls with a level glance of invitation. "It would be my unparalleled delight."

* * *

He came to her chambers without complaint; with very little malice, though certainly some traces. He stood in the doorway and scowled around the room, observing it with distaste, or possibly with wariness. As if he distrusted the very air inside it.

"I changed very little when she died," he said shortly. "But somehow it looks quite different."

Hermione hazarded an attempt at candor. "I had things removed and rearranged," she said. "I didn't enjoy living in your dead mother's rooms."

He twitched a little at the mention of Queen Narcissa, but tossed his robe aside, resigned. It landed neatly on the chair, draping casually, though she doubted his intention had been anything other than to drop it on the floor. As he prowled around inside her rooms uninvited, the flickering light from the fire shone through the thin material of his shirt, outlining the contours of his torso.

"I don't like it here," he pronounced with finality. "It's unpleasant." He glanced askance at the wine she had already known he wouldn't drink, giving it his usual look of malcontent. "Do you have any water?"

"Can you not turn it to water yourself?" Hermione prompted.

He gave her a tiny, half-annoyed smirk, waving a hand over a glass.

"So hospitable you are, my treasured bride," he said, raising it to his lips.

She looked away as he drank. The motion of his mouth, accented by his swallow, suddenly felt intensely private.

"Well," he said. "I suppose we should start."

He sat on her bed, again uninvited. She reluctantly perched at the opposite end.

"I don't have a wand," she reminded him. When she was with Theo, she usually used his, though she tried to push that out of her mind along with everything else. "You destroyed it, remember?"

"Bygones, sweetheart, bygones. And you don't need a wand." He patted the space opposite him on the bed, beckoning her with a motion. "Sit."

She grimaced. "Am I to be summoned like a dog?"

"Not a very good one, clearly," said Draco. "Shall I call you more sweetly, then? Come along, my sugared plum," he said, extravagantly mirthless. "Come here to me, that's a good girl."

She spared him a look of loathing, and only then did he laugh.

"Fine, you stay there. I'll come to you." He crawled forward, reaching her at the opposite end of the bed. He had a catlike way about him, languidly feline with the motion of his shoulders. "Though, for someone who summoned me to your room, you seem suddenly quite opposed to my presence in it."

His proximity was enough to choke on, swallowing her tongue.

"You're being very yourself this evening," she said. "I detest it."

"Sweet, darling." He pulled himself upright, facing her. "Try detesting me somewhere else."

That was entirely nonsensical. "Like where?"

He reached forward, touching his thumb to the center of her brow. Her first impulse was to pull away; her second, which she endured, was to freeze in place.

"Close your eyes," he said.

Grudgingly, she obliged him.

The moment her lids fell shut, she felt certain the two of them had been transported somewhere else. There was a sudden pull, like a pulse, and then she could no longer hear the crackling fire, or feel its warmth.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," said Draco. "Here, really? It's so bloody drafty in this wretched place."

Hermione cracked one eye to find herself, quite impossibly, inside Hogwarts, with Draco standing in front of her.

"How," she began, one hand instantly reaching for her ring to be sure she hadn't unintentionally caused this via the stone. "How did we—"

"We're not actually there," Draco said. "We're… on another plane, I suppose."

"Where?"

"Inside your mind," he told her, and then turned sharply, taking the stairs. "Shall we see what's what, hm?"

With a lag of disbelief, she followed. "What?"

"Occlumency," Draco said over his shoulder, "is the art of security for your mind. If you're any good at it at all, your mind will have built up some defenses. A castle's a good start," he said, reaching out to jiggle a door handle, "what with all the stone and bricks and whatnot, but—ah," he said, as the next door he tried pushed open. "Some weaknesses in your defense, I see."

Hermione was mortified to see that behind the door was a perfect replica of her dressing room the way it had been when Draco kissed her. His boots were strewn across the floor, the chair he'd conjured sitting empty, and the wardrobe door was ajar at precisely the angle she remembered it being whenever she revisited the moment herself.

Draco coughed, smothering a laugh at her expense, and she glared at him, reaching quickly to slam the door shut.

"You said you were going to teach me," she reminded him, "not _invade_ me."

"Well, I wanted to see the flaws in your design before I patched them up," he said. "I was assuming you would have some." He trotted down the stairs, glancing around. "It's very quiet in here, which is good. You're further along than I thought."

"What would happen if I weren't?"

He shrugged. "Flying keys, I suppose. Any number of secrets zinging around, disturbed."

"Why, because you're here?"

"I am, as you put it, an invader, so yes. My presence should summon up all your little apprehensions, your worries, your surface vanities and such, but you've hidden those away nicely." He paused suddenly, rotating to face her. "Why was that door so easy to open?"

She suppressed a gasp, finding herself accosted by his presence; too close.

"Ah," he said, his gaze falling expectantly to her lips as above, a stray beam of light came through the stained glass window, christening his shoulder like a blade. "Well," he remarked with a chuckle, "if you want me to do it again, my sweets, you have only to ask."

He gave her a wickedly self-assured smile, turning away. "What's here?" he mused aloud, wandering toward one of the first floor classrooms. Hermione shook herself, startled, and chased after him, dismayed.

"I wasn't… please don't—"

He turned the knob, but inside was only a brick wall.

"Fascinating," he said, knocking twice on the bricks. "Well, I suppose that's that, then."

"What's what?"

"Only this," he said, and took her arm, pulling her closer. Pulling her _so_ close, in fact, that he was able to collect her gasp in his mouth, catching it between his lips. Unforgivable that he should be so entitled, and so adept at something he had, by all accounts, no right to know how to do; that anyone could possess so natural a talent at kissing ought to be a capital offense. He held her carefully, cradling the back of her head with his palm, his other hand brushing the material of her shift.

She became acutely aware that beneath the meager fabric, she was naked, and also, the fabric wasn't real, and neither was any of this.

A tiny, desperate moan slid from her lips, just a breath above silence.

Then, behind her, the bricks crumbled to dust, falling away.

"Thank you very much," Draco said, and released all but two of her fingers, which he hooked with two of his own to tug her forward. "Let's see… ah yes, of course," he said, tutting softly when he glanced inside the classroom. "You would have been quite lonely, wouldn't you?"

She stiffened, realizing he was watching her memories; her sense of longing must have been drawn out of her by his kiss, which she fully resented. He was playing dirty, the sneak.

She opened her mouth to point out that at least _she_ hadn't scared off or murdered everyone who ever got close to her, but she stopped, recognizing that the look of superiority had faded from his face. Now he was merely watching with curiosity, observing the first year potions lab.

"I suppose you would never have been in a classroom," she realized aloud. "With other children?"

She watched him stiffen, forearm flexing as he dug his nails into his palm.

"You really mustn't let people in like this," he said in pointed non-answer, not taking his eyes from where she sat, eleven years old and quietly working alone. "Once someone has been inside your head once, they own a piece of you." He twisted to glance at her, reproving. "You can never take back what I know, and I can always find my way back to it at will."

His grey gaze drifted to her hair, which had come loose. A curl rested on the bone of her clavicle and he reached for it, twisting it once around his finger before letting it fall. He stared at the spot for another moment, considering something, and then glanced up to meet her eye.

"Ask me," he said.

She wanted badly to protest ignorance—_ask you what?_—if only to let him believe he was alone in this particular feeling, and therefore all feelings. She wanted, vengefully, for him to feel as isolated as she did; as powerless and alone.

But she couldn't. His answer mattered to her more.

"Why did you run from me?" she asked, as a thin, golden arrow pierced the air, puncturing the spot his fingers had brushed. It wasn't any more painful than asking the question had been, but Draco tilted his head, eyeing it, and plucked it free, running his thumb over the narrow rivulet of blood that slid like a tear from her clavicle.

"People who come close to me get hurt," he said. "Do you want me to hurt you?"

Yes, a destructive piece of her thought, I want you to break me into fragments and scatter the pieces of who I used to be at sea. In that moment, he was so very handsome and empty and trapped that she wanted to break him into parts for herself, preserving each one to savor slowly.

"Perhaps it's me you want to hurt," he mused aloud, taunting her with the possibility. "Is that it? I have been cruel to you, like the world has been cruel to you, and therefore you want me to suffer."

"If anyone should be allowed to hurt you," she countered, "shouldn't it be me?"

He smiled thinly.

"Wonderful work, my dandelion. You've learned one lesson well," he said, tucking her hair behind one ear and pinning it back with the arrow, twining it into her curls. "Never, ever tell the truth when you've let me in your head, or the whole castle will fall to pieces."

* * *

The next night, when he tried again to kiss her, she pulled away. "You can't think I'm this stupid," she said, gesturing to the door that had appeared the moment he stepped in close.

"On the contrary, my trumpeting seraph, I think you're much too brilliant to hold me so unsatisfactorily at arm's length," he said, giving her a glance of perfect expectancy. "Think what an utter delight it would be for us both if you let me."

They had hit a stalemate, unfortunately. She only saw parts of him when he saw parts of her; intentionally or otherwise, they were transactional with their secrets that way.

"On one condition," she said, trying to think how to best tip the scales in her favor. "You'll have to let me inside _your_ head."

"Impossible, my cordial peach," he said dismissively. "My head is occupied by other tenants."

"Not all the time, though, is it?" she pressed him, thinking of Theo's theory that Draco had put his secrets in some tightly-sealed vault. "Surely there must be _some_ place you keep to yourself in there, or you'd go positively mad."

"If there were, you wouldn't be invited in," Draco said, neither confirming nor denying any such existence. "You can try your hand at breaking in, my conniving little moonray, but an outright summons is out of the question."

"Tell me why you want to kiss me, then," she said irritably. "Because if it's only to be a thief inside my own head—"

"There's a lake," Draco interrupted, and Hermione faltered, not having expected him to answer. "In the gardens behind the palace, the ones beside my private rooms, there's a small, enchanted lake; my mother's design. She loved beauty, nature, art. She used to go there to sit alone, to paint or to sketch things, but she never took me with her when she went. I snuck in, of course, from time to time, and after she died I went as a matter of habit, particularly when my father was looking for me. He liked to keep me safely indoors, where he could keep an eye on me; which is understandable, but to a child, there is nothing worse than a cage." A pause. "I would fall asleep there sometimes and wake up in the dark—when I could see nothing, but I still knew where I was—and the air was fragrant with unseen flowers, and heavy with stillness and dew."

He paused again, considering something. "I understand now why I wasn't allowed to go," Draco remarked to himself, as if it were only now becoming clear to him. "Some things are too pristine to spoil. I might have rotted it somehow, punctured the serenity of it. Imagine if I had destroyed it somehow, or torn it down? I might have burned it, twisted it up and buried it, left it in mangled pieces just to waste away, all its beauty gone forever."

Hermione tried to say something, to speak, but in her silence Draco turned face to her, fixing her with a steady glance.

"I want to kiss you because you taste like the air beside the lake at midnight," he said, and then, before Hermione could reply, a low click sounded through the corridor, revealing a vacancy four doors down. "Oh, look at that," he said, releasing her and striding away without another glance. "I didn't even have to do it."

She tried, as the days progressed, to do to him what he did to her, but it was beyond difficult. Each time she came close to unlocking something about him, he simply uncovered something new about her.

Once, he saw the memory of the two of them from when they'd first met; "They have to do what you say," his younger self said of the elves, and the older version of him, the one traipsing about in her mind, gave her a glance of _ah, I see._

"You find it despicable, I assume," he said. "Unfortunately, at the time I think I might have abused anything that made me feel an ounce of my own power."

"That's not an excuse for cruelty," said Hermione, though she twisted a bit to consider that Draco had never been much different from the elves, always beholden to someone else's whims.

"You're right, it isn't," he said, not quite looking at her. "And besides, my perspicacious dove, it's probably best if you continue to hate me unencumbered."

She expressed her frustrations to the others, but they were not especially helpful. Harry was obsessed with the prospect of the still-visiting Minister Dumbledore, whom he saw as a plausible ally, and therefore nursed a suspicion that Hermione was betraying them by failing to act.

"Don't you see?" Harry urged Hermione, half-pleading. "Dumbledore's the one who told me about Voldemort. If anyone knows how to kill him, it's probably Dumbledore, and anyway, he probably knows more about the Hallows—"

"He's the one who told you?" echoed Hermione, startled. She supposed she had never thought to ask, but clearly whatever else Harry was, he wasn't adept enough at research to have sorted it out without help. "But if he knows about Voldemort, then why hasn't he already done something?"

"Dumbledore was a friend of my father's," said Harry, answering her first question, "and as for the rest, I've never had any real evidence about Draco before; nothing we could bring before the Wizengamot or the Ministry, anyway." He brightened with enthusiasm, flushed with possibility. "But if _you_ came forward and told him—"

"I'm going to stop you right there," Theo announced, rising to his feet and slamming his book shut. "We are absolutely not going to Dumbledore."

"Why not?" Harry demanded.

"I don't like him," said Theo. "I don't trust him."

"Your only friend is a demon," snapped Harry, losing his temper even more quickly than usual these days. It seemed that keeping him cooped up in the alternate version of the palace was driving him to heightened agitation, which Hermione felt somewhat sorry about, until she remembered he wasn't much help outside its walls. "Perhaps you're not the most reliable judge of character in the room, Nott!"

"Well, if I'm so very _deplorable_, Potter, then what does that say about you? You're the one who—" Theo stopped, cheeks brightly scarlet, and scowled. "The point is—"

"I _want_ to trust Dumbledore, if anyone cares," interrupted Hermione with a sigh, "but I'm not sure we should do it yet." As Harry's expression darkened, she assured him, "I just worry he has… another agenda we haven't considered."

"Such as?"

"Well—"

In truth, it wasn't much of a secret. Dumbledore had always been openly critical of the monarchy, and he had already pressed Hermione for details about Draco before, thinking her an ally for his populist cause. Not that she _wasn't_ an ally—she was hardly a loyal monarchist herself, having once been the unfortunate castoff of a broken, prejudiced system—but she couldn't push aside what Draco had said about kings being violently deposed before. Would Dumbledore be able to control the damage if she handed him the match to burn it all down?

If Dumbledore could somehow extract Voldemort from Draco, that would remove a fraction of her concern. But even then, Hermione still wasn't comfortable sharing everything they knew.

"I'm just not sure," she said slowly, "if we want to tell Dumbledore about the Hallows."

She had seen the way his gaze dropped to her ring, and worse, he had asked her a deafeningly suspicious question.

"I wonder," said Dumbledore to her at dinner one evening, "what do you suppose happened to King Lucius' wand? It was rather a remarkable instrument, or so I'm told," he remarked, glancing swiftly at Draco, "though I can't recall seeing His Majesty use one."

She guessed he had been using as a code of sorts, trying to gauge her response; perhaps waiting for a flicker of acknowledgement. She, however, had demurred as best she could, though after hearing from Harry that Dumbledore might know something about their mutual enemy, she later pulled him aside.

"I wonder, Minister, as a political matter," she said, "do you know much about demons?"

"They fall under prohibited creatures," said Dumbledore, though his eyes twinkled with amusement and, if she were translating properly, approval. "I don't suppose Her Majesty is finally taking an interest in my efforts at creature reform?"

"No, no—though I find your work very admirable, of course," she assured him, and she did, which was part of the problem indeed. Dumbledore was an exceedingly good Minister, whereas Draco was a disastrous and, at best, perfectly ambivalent king. It made choosing sides, or simply choosing what information to give either side, especially difficult. "I merely wondered whether you knew about… _specific_ demons."

"Well, demons are rather difficult," said Dumbledore. "Nearly impossible to kill. They are, as some research suggests, souls without bodies; though, a soul is a very human concept, and demons are particularly inhuman."

"Can a demon be," Hermione began, and coughed delicately. "_Killed_, then?"

"With the right tools, a demon can certainly be extinguished, or at the very least controlled," said Dumbledore, his gaze falling again to her ring. "Though cases are so rare there's very little proof suggesting it can be done in actuality."

Hermione winced. "Only stories, then?"

"Only stories," Dumbledore confirmed, "though a story can often hold more power than you think, Your Majesty."

This, when she relayed it back to Harry, only made him feverishly adamant.

"Don't you see? He's our best ally," Harry insisted, stalking around the edges of the room like a captive whose cell had recently shrunk. "We've got to come to terms with reality! Draco's hidden the last Hallow somewhere we'll never find, and your deal with Voldemort isn't going to last forever. Whatever silly hope you have that Draco will take your side, it's nothing more than a fairytale!" Harry hurled at Hermione, who flinched. "You're lucky if it lasts the week!"

She hated that she couldn't quite argue with him; not logically, not completely.

But Theo, unfortunately, was more than happy to jump in.

"Dumbledore can't be trusted with power," he said darkly. "I've seen his type, I know it. He'll want the Hallows for himself, and he'll happily throw Draco to the wolves to be rid of Voldemort—"

"And what does that matter if it means Voldemort's gone?" Harry demanded. "He killed my father, he tortured Neville's parents—"

Theo clenched a fist. "Draco didn't do any of that, it wasn't him—"

"But Draco's done nothing to stop him, either!" Harry shouted, frustrated. "And what happens when Draco has no control at all, Nott? What then? Are we really supposed to watch the world burn just because you think Dumbledore might want the Hallows for himself?"

"Hang on, stop," Hermione cut in, shoving the two men apart before things got increasingly heated. "Harry, listen to me," she said, turning to him first. "Just give me until the end of this week with Draco. Maybe he'll tell me something, but if he doesn't, we'll go to Dumbledore, I promise. Just give me one more night," she said, doubting she could convince him to wait much longer. "I'll do something else; something more drastic this time."

"Like what?" asked Theo, which was a sentiment echoed by the frustration in Harry's green eyes.

Truthfully, she hardly knew. She only understood that she would have to turn something she knew about Draco against him, as he had used her wanting against her. She would have to play dirty, collapsing his defenses the same way he had invaded hers.

She had a feeling that even if it was only her mind they had been inside thus far, she had still collected pieces of him he had given to no one else. She knew him in a way no other person alive could possibly know him. She had been to the lake he described to her, making her way through the labyrinth of roses; she had breathed the precise air she knew to be laden with his regrets, his loneliness, his hunger to be valued, and therefore she had witnessed his compulsion to be known and understood and loved.

She would have to weaponize that pain against him. Even that, however traitorous it might be, would be better than letting him die, wouldn't it?

Even if it wasn't, she couldn't let Dumbledore kill him, or Harry, either. She hadn't really been lying when she'd said it to him: if anyone was going to destroy him, to hurt him, it should be someone who wouldn't do it lightly. It should be someone for whom his pain would mean something, so that it would not be done cruelly, guilefully, or in vain.

It was Pansy and Daphne who'd convinced her. They were the ones who watched her face while they undressed her, while they soaked her skin in scented oils. While Hermione tormented herself in silence, desperate for not knowing how to prevent herself from being the one to lose, they were the ones who spoke her thoughts.

"What if," Daphne had said quietly, "the only way to beat him is to allow yourself to love him?"

It was the one thing the others could have never suggested to her. Pansy had said nothing, but it was clear she felt the same.

"Just give me one more night," Hermione told Harry firmly. "I swear, I'll break through his defenses. And if I don't—"

But she would. She would do it, not just for herself, but in a twisted way, for Draco.

If someone was going to break him, it was going to be her.

* * *

On the seventh night he came to her chambers, she was waiting for him on the bed, hair undone and robe loosely parted to reveal her shift beneath. On another woman this look would be called seduction, but exquisite Hermione was not particularly in the business of curating herself to be looked at. More likely she had wanted to be some version of herself that was unconstrained by corsets or mannered regulations.

His hands itched to be on her waist, and his lips on her skin, though he restrained himself. In her head, things were safer—he knew, at least, that anything he felt inside her head belonged to himself alone—but in real life, with bodies and unseen occupants between them, he could never be sure what specific kind of madness he was suffering.

"Shall we start?" he said, casting off his robe and sitting across from her on the bed.

She closed her eyes. "Meet me there," she said, and he was pleased to know that if he smiled, which he wouldn't, it would be a moment that belonged quite securely to himself.

He slid easily into her thoughts, finding himself in the usual place at Hogwarts, though Hermione had already disappeared, leading him up the stairs. He followed, wordless, after the glimpse of white, the hem of her shift floating like a ghost before him through the stillness of the castle.

She brought him up to the astronomy tower, overlooking the lake her mind had built. It was a bit too perfect, like a painting of the landscape rather than the landscape itself, but it was skillfully done all the same. Her memory was remarkable, and the constructs of her mind even more so. He hated to give her so much credit, even inside her own head, but darling Hermione was as magically capable as her gown had suggested that first fateful night. She was a storm, and one with enough power stirring idly in her veins for a demon itself to envy; all the worse for a helpless corporeal king.

"Why here, my sinister enchantress?" he asked neutrally, and paused as she stepped towards him.

He expected her to stop, to strike him, to question him, to taunt him, to fight with him.

He did not expect her to come closer, placing her hands delicately around his face. Nor did he expect her to stroke his cheeks, caressing them. He hadn't expected her to draw up on her toes, to brush his lips with hers, to whisper his name into them, a fleeting tendril of a sigh for him to shiver on the wind.

"There are no doors here," she said. "No truths, no lies. No questions, no answers." The imagined breeze slid around them, and instinctively, he pulled her closer. "I won't ask you to be anything you aren't," she said. "I won't press you, or hold you accountable for anything you've been. I won't ask you to be different, or to be better, or to be other in any way."

Her fingers slid into his hair as he closed his eyes, emptied and overflowing.

"Hogwarts has many feasts," she said, "but my favorite was always the start of term banquet, perhaps because it was the first. When I arrived, I had not had a good meal in weeks," she recounted, her fingers falling to his chest and spreading out, taking up space. "My stomach had gotten used to nothing—to feeling empty—so to encounter that spread, the tables as far as the eye could see laden down with everything I had never even dreamt of tasting… I remember how it all shone golden, saturated and crisp. I wanted to have all of it, but couldn't manage more than a few bites. I ate so much I felt terribly sick, and I cried secretly into my pudding." She laughed a little, sadly. "But still, I felt sure I'd never have all that again, so I thought: even if this kills me, I'll still take another bite."

Her fingers curled and uncurled, coiling up in the fabric of his shirt.

"To me, you taste like that mix of salt and sweetness," she said, as something in Draco's chest wrenched and burned, sinking and knotting and twisting. "An excess of luxury in a life of scarcity. Like unearned riches, like decadence itself; the unburned ashes of everything I'll never have."

He wanted to do something useful, or perhaps meaningful; in the absence of either, he fumbled to take hold of her face. Surely she wanted softness, wanted to be comforted and soothed, but he wanted the perversity of spoiling her, of grasping her like something that might slip away, might float. He wanted her hair to show evidence of his hands, for her skin to be raw where he kissed it. He wanted to scrape his teeth along the side of her neck, carving her name there with his tongue, where only he could see it. It was monstrous, his undiluted craving; the reaching, the intertwining of himself with her, but he couldn't be rid of it; couldn't extinguish it, couldn't subjugate it the way he so often did with himself. Was it wrong to love the taste of honesty on her tongue, bitter with things she'd sacrificed? She had told him a secret, shared it with him inside her own head, and he would have it now, forever. She had given him a piece of herself by confessing it, the truth of her own hunger: that she would want and want and want and never have enough.

She matched him as he kissed her, sensation for sensation, so that when he wrestled her back against the tower walls she tore his shirt over his head, digging her nails into his chest. Together they watched the red crescents bloom on his skin; the welts of her wanting. How mad they were together, how blissfully unhinged! He wanted to fall with her over the edge of the railing, to capsize with her in the lake. He wanted to sink to the base of his desires and take her down with him, siphoning a sigh from her mouth as he drowned.

The kiss went on for both their infernal lifetimes, for half a second, for the reign of a new moon. He slid the robe from her shoulders partway, locking her arms in place, and when she laughed, tauntingly, the sound of it bright with dismay and longing, he caught the sound of it on his tongue. He dropped lower, to her chin, below her jaw, down her throat. He felt the little tremor of fear from her limbs, the terror of unexplored territory. He was the first person to touch her here, or here, or here. He slid his lips over the curves of her breasts and thought with triumph that he had claimed her for himself, for his empire; for the generations of his blood that would follow, all of it shed in her name.

She bit the lobe of his ear and he growled, rejoining his lips with hers. She laughed again, the sort of laugh that was almost a sob; delicate hysteria. This was hurting her as badly as it hurt him, and for that, for how obscenely he wanted her, his lungs ached to scream the virtues of their vulgarity in the form of manic song. They would die for this, together. She could stab him now and, in return, he would gladly take her last breath; he would save it for himself.

Her hand stroked him and he jumped, startled. Did she want him; truly _want_ him? Yes, maybe she did, and that burned newly through him, alight and incandescent. He pulled her closer, aching, and she moved her hips, just slightly. How adolescent of them, really. How juvenile, to want to shove together until one or both were swallowed whole. He wondered if he could do it—could he?—no, he couldn't—yes, god yes, yes, he could, he _should_—but no, not here, not when he would relive it later with a demon sifting through his thoughts, taunting him—but who deserved it more than he, who was in possession of such a demon? Surely he could die more successfully for having had more of her; for having had _all_ of her. He would die so beautifully that way. So beatifically they'd canonize him in an instant, and all because she'd offered him a single, rapturous release.

His hands found her face blindly, grasping her desperately. He kissed her once more, twice, then went ragged, suffocating with tension, with fear.

"I want to be better than you think I am," he said hoarsely, "but I think perhaps I'm worse."

She kissed him back with sorrow, sickly sweet, and with brutal disappointment.

"So am I," she said, and he went rigid.

Then, slowly, he opened his eyes.

Not the astronomy tower. Not Hogwarts. He was in his father's study, the wand pointed at his chest, and Hermione was there, watching.

Ah, so it was this, then.

He let the scene play out; why fight it? He watched Lucius come towards him, shouting about how he'd been wrong, how it was all a mistake, how the deal should never have been made, Narcissa never stolen, Draco never born, the throne itself never purchased. Hermione watched from across the room, and of course she was horrified. Poor thing. Poor innocent, deceitful thing. Poor queen of trickery, empress of artifice. She watched Lucius raise his wand, watched Draco cast it away with a motion of two fingers. That was the important thing, really. He had to be the one to disarm him, but everything else was just… for fun. No, not for fun. It wasn't fun.

But it wasn't entirely unsatisfying.

Draco had loved his father, truly, albeit in much the same way any animal loves something that keeps it alive; slavishly, and with more hope than understanding. He had stopped loving his father at a very particular moment: oh, yes, this one, which Hermione would get to see. How splendid for them both; how touching. There was the knife aimed at his chest—hysterical, really, that his father would make a deal with a demon and then think a _knife_ would do the trick—which Draco would twist around, driving into his father's leg. Femoral artery. Lucius would bleed out within minutes. Voldemort would take over soon, killing Lucius more. Yes, more, and in worse ways, too. It was possible to die multiple ways, multiple times, to do so over and over. Lucius had. Draco had stabbed him; Voldemort had done everything else.

He didn't want Hermione to see the rest; it was all so undignified, so very gory. He dragged the scene to a halt, staring at her, watching for her response.

She was inside his head now, which meant she knew things he didn't have to say out loud.

"What's this?" came a voice behind him. Draco knew it, of course. Hermione's eyes widened, but even so, Draco would have known it anywhere. "Hm," said the demon, which would be dressed in its usual heavy cloak, red eyes shining. "Perhaps you've done me a favor, little witch. If not for you bungling around so noisily, I might not have known this was here."

Only then did Draco turn, slowly. He found the demon staring at a gleaming vault, an accent piece that didn't belong among the memory of his father's things. It fingered the golden filigree with claws Draco so often felt against his thoughts, scraping.

"What's in here, princelet?" asked the demon, its smile like the marks of Hermione's nails in his chest, and for a moment, Draco wanted to laugh at the sight of it, burning with irony. Hadn't he just said he would die to have her?

As if he didn't know perfectly well there were far worse things than death.

* * *

Hermione took hold of Draco's hand and dragged them both out, surfacing beside him on her bed with a gasp. The moment they collapsed out of his head, Draco rose in silent fury, leaving his robe behind, cast at the feet of the traitor he had married. Hermione, still fighting for breath, ran for the mirror in her wardrobe, shouting for the others.

"Daphne," she half-screamed. "Pansy!"

She flew through the halls, sprinting, and found them beside the stairs with Theo at their side, his face pale. Immediately, Hermione faltered; she had never known him to look so dire, and suddenly she couldn't think to explain what she'd just seen.

"What happened?"

"Potter's gone," Theo said grimly, referencing the empty palace. "Weasley and Longbottom are checking to be sure, but he's not here. He must have used the cloak to sneak out when you let Daphne and Pansy in."

No. Hermione blinked. No, no, no, this was the last thing that could have happened; the last thing that _should_ have happened—

"Where did he go?"

"Well," Daphne said, wincing, "again, we're not sure, but—"

"No, I'm sure," Theo cut in flatly, shaking his head. "He went to the Ministry, I'm positive. He went to Dumbledore, I know it."

This, Hermione thought with sparks of fury, was not at all what she wanted. Hadn't she specifically told him to wait? Something itched at her, an old feeling, which now seemed to catch flame, igniting in her limbs.

"You could turn him over, if he's so willing to play with his life," Pansy remarked, glowering slightly. "He's asking for it, really. And isn't he what the demon wants?"

"Pansy, honestly," Hermione said in exasperation, spinning on her heel and making her way back out.

She was surprised to collide with someone when she returned; more surprised that it was Draco. He must have come back for his robe, or to catch her. She no longer knew or cared.

"I'm sorry," she said without thinking, though she wasn't sure what she was sorry for. Sorry she'd aligned herself with someone who couldn't be trusted to remain logical? Her skin was pebbled all over, and not with cold. Sorry for Draco, that his father had tried to kill him? Sorry he'd felt so many things over his father's death: rage, betrayal, sorrow, devastation all in one? He had stood there so numb, as if it meant nothing, but she could feel the truth. She could feel the way Draco's last hope had died along with King Lucius, staggering and bleeding out in precisely the same way.

"Draco, I'm—" Angry. Furious. Full of hatred and regret. Emptied of patience and virtue. Why were men so stupid? Why, even knowing that, did she want this one so powerfully? Why had she been placed on this godforsaken throne? Why had any of this happened to her, and why were her hands so dirtied with it? She had revealed something to Voldemort that Draco had kept from his demon for years. For that she had destroyed him, or she would destroy him. Ultimately, she would be his end.

"I," she began again, but he pulled her into his chest, unspeaking.

She wished she hadn't hurt him. She wished she could hurt him again, worse.

Then he kissed the top of her head and tore himself away, departing her chambers without another word.

* * *

"Harry Potter is at the Ministry with Dumbledore," said Draco, having gleaned as much from his moment with her, both more and less alone than ever before.

Hermione would hate him for this, but now that the demon knew Draco had other secrets to keep, this was his least dangerous option. He had grasped at the fraying ends of her thoughts, the ones she'd been unable to conceal from him in her frustration, and now, because of him, they would finally be done. His betrayal for hers.

Duplicitous Hermione, whom he would keep safe if it killed him, which it probably, definitely would.

"Shall we fetch him now?" he prompted.

_Yes, princelet,_ said the demon, _though don't think you're done paying yet._

Oh no, there would be no forgiveness. The demon had made that quite clear.

Draco felt himself tugged backwards inside his thoughts, fading from consciousness with a blink of white light as the demon filled out the shape of his limbs, stalking with purpose towards a London soon to wake.

* * *

_**a/n: **__We're back! fyi, my new novella, LA PETITE MORT, is now available for pre-order at olivieblake dot com. It is about a bisexual lady vampire in New Orleans and the charming immortal alchemist who royally pissed her off. For my loves gaeleria, boinklarke, aryletta. Thank you so much for following along! _


	8. Fortune Favors the Bold

**Chapter 8: Fortune Favors the Bold**

Well. This story is all well and good (a bit thrilling, really—not that you plan to tell your grandmother that) but the point remains that none of this is even close to what actually happened to Prince Draco. Everyone knows that the magical monarchy, after succumbing to generations of mismanagement, ended with a peaceful abdication and a subsequent transition of power from the Royal House of Malfoy to the Ministry of Magic. Surely your grandmother isn't suggesting that all the accounts of the Ministry's rise to power are somehow—

"—wrong?" supplies your grandmother, finishing your thought with something Mama would unflatteringly refer to as 'gumption.' "Flagrantly so, petal, and more's the pity for it. Though, I suppose tales of demons floating around might have inadvertently caused a riot. Best not to have to wrangle the mob unless it becomes terrifically necessary—which," she adds with a qualifying sip, "I suppose it rather did."

You're only half-listening, as the idea of some sort of mass governmental conspiracy is quite a mad one. How would it even be possible? After all, your grandmother is proof there are people alive today who witnessed these events, though not as many as there once were. (She _is_ rather getting on in years… surely she's over a century and a half by now, you think, though it's rather impolite to ask a lady's age.)

In any case, the issue of impossibility persists. How could everyone in the wizarding world have been tricked into believing one thing if their eyes saw quite another?

"Rather easily, I'm afraid," your grandmother laments, and to her credit, she does look reasonably sympathetic. "The problem with eyes, petal, is that they can be made to see whatever they are told to see. A regrettable flaw in the whole system, really, that so many eyes can be directed by the powerful. Even the most elementary sleight of hand can make a person question the reality of what's happening right in front of them, if it's done skillfully enough."

But then, by that logic, how could anyone ever believe anything? A thought strikes you with horror that perhaps you simply _can't_ believe anything you're told, ever.

"Well, what a marvelously clever girl you are, petal," pronounces your grandmother, with a smile so vibrant you see color blooming brightly in her cheeks. "I rather think you're finally starting to understand."

* * *

_**The Inquest of King Draco I, 1726  
**__Ministry of Magic, London, England  
Six Months Before The Fall_

A cursory search revealed Minister Dumbledore's rooms in the palace to be emptied, and the palace as a whole generally lacking any evidence of Harry, who was quite truly and terribly gone. They had suspected as much already—Hermione had no doubt, after all, that Theo was right, and that Harry had clearly gone ahead without waiting for so much as an 'and what do you suppose will happen next, hm?'—but still, they were left with the question of what, exactly, to do about it.

The opening argument between those of their little alliance that remained had focused mostly on how to proceed, if they even planned to do so. How, after all, to go after a man widely considered to be dead, particularly when so much was yet to be discussed about what Hermione had uncovered in Draco's head? (She could not think about Draco himself; not now. Thank heavens for the small favor of cataclysmic fallout! A relief that she did not have to think about the look on his face when he'd discovered her treachery, and could focus freely on impending disaster instead.) Luckily, when it came to recent revelations for both Draco and Harry, the conversation was essentially the same: What did they plan to do if Harry offered Dumbledore the cloak, or if he shared their theory that Draco was the rightful possessor of the Elder Wand?

In short: Was Dumbledore an ally or not?

"Perhaps he is?" said Daphne and Neville, resident optimists.

"He most certainly is not," replied Theo and Pansy, dutiful iconoclasts.

Hermione glanced at Ron, who grimaced.

"If Harry's confirmed the existence of the Hallows, then Dumbledore knows where to find all three," said Ron uncomfortably. "Whether he can be trusted or not, I suppose it might be worth noting that two of the necessary Hallows are presently in the hands of the current monarchs."

"Meaning?" prompted Neville, as Daphne took a careful step away from him and towards Pansy, subtly switching teams.

"Better we don't give him a reason to start a mass political revolution, I should think," said Pansy stiffly, and with that, it seemed they were agreed on their first major topic of controversy: they would have to chase down Harry, if only to ensure Dumbledore would not proceed to come after the monarchy itself.

What followed were several theories as to how to go about it. Daphne and Pansy did not think Hermione should be the one to follow Harry, considering she was queen and, as such, not party to such rampant escapades; and anyway, they argued, if she disappeared into the night only to pop up at the Ministry, Draco would be understandably alarmed, and therefore so would his demon, and from there the only reasonable outcome was unmitigated disaster. Hermione argued that yes, that was certainly true, but her being _absent_ could signal disaster as well, particularly as she had proven herself the only person thus far capable of disaster mitigation. Neville and Ron pointed out that as the only person not presently likely to be demonically consumed in the event the demon managed to discover anything of Harry's whereabouts, perhaps Hermione was perhaps the _only_ person who should go after him, while the others stayed behind.

Theo had been silent for most of the conversation, instead choosing to prowl around with barely-suppressed agitation; needless to say, however, he did not care for this or any other plan.

"I'm going," he announced, attempting to shove past Hermione until she stopped him, shoving him back. "You haven't got a wand," he reminded her irritably, "and I don't believe Potter's safe with Dumbledore in the slightest. What if it's not just the wand that's got right of conquest, but the cloak, too? If Potter gets himself killed for this," Theo growled under his breath, looking more anguished than angry, "I swear, I'll—"

"Fine, we'll all go, then," Hermione hurried to assure him, not wanting to know what Theo might threaten to do from the depths of his panic. "I'll go with Daphne and Pansy, they're capable duellers," she said, glancing at them to be sure they were up for it, and determinedly, they gave her a pair of solemn nods, "and the rest of you can meet us there. I'll find something to let you in; I'm sure there's plenty of reflective surfaces in the Ministry—"

"You think I'm going to waste my time transporting myself inside _this_ realm when I could be in _that_ one? I spent a year of my life trying pointlessly to be where he was," Theo snapped, having long since abandoned his patience. "I won't leave him now. Not if I have any other choice."

"But the demon might kill you if it catches you," Hermione reminded him. "We hardly know what it's capable of doing, do we? Even after months of research, none of us are any closer to understanding Voldemort's magic." Not even Dumbledore fully understood, by the sounds of it, or surely he would have done something about it sooner. "The deal I made with Voldemort may not hold, Theo."

"Then I won't get caught," said Theo brusquely.

Hermione figured there was nothing she could do to talk him out of it. There were stakes for him, clearly, and after a moment to unwillingly recall the look on Draco's face when she'd last left him, Hermione had a feeling Theo's weren't terribly different from hers.

"Fine," she said. So be it. One more soldier in her army wouldn't hurt, and besides, she had a rather unpleasant feeling her evening wasn't even close to over. "Then let's go."

* * *

Hermione had never been inside the Ministry of Magic before, only catching glimpses of it from Headmaster Dippet's newspapers or hearing about it from McGonagall. By now she would have been unsurprised to encounter opulence or grandeur, but the Ministry wasn't that, exactly. It was grand, certainly, but the foreboding kind, and in the dark it was indescribably worse. There were glimmers of gold and marble, illuminated by flickers from the torches on the walls and charmed to a half-lit sleeplessness, but the architecture was so austere as to be frigid. The low visibility—such that Hermione's eyes couldn't quite adjust—gave the corridors a ghostly feel, which was not improved by the echoes of their own footsteps as they walked.

She was relieved, at least, that Pansy and Daphne had finally dressed her in something sensible: a simple riding dress and bodice beneath her cloak, abandoning the inefficiency of oversized trains and noisy silks. She wasn't quite as furtive as the shadows, as Theo was in his dark breeches and faded black shirt, but she was at least far less blatant than the finery they had just left.

They had not run into any problems on their brief journey to the Ministry. The halls of the palace during the haunted hours of night were quiet, undisturbed—somewhere in the palace, the demon was probably taking out its rage on Draco; though again, Hermione could not bear to think of that right now—and it was easy, perhaps too easy, to make her way from her rooms to the palace floo. She had dressed Theo in one of her formal cloaks, concealed within the illusion of one of her gowns, and unsurprisingly, he had been as good as invisible inside it. Femininity was valuable that way, hardly ever arousing suspicion; what harm, after all, could a flock of chattering noblewomen do? It had been nothing at all to slip past the guards and reach this point, which should have soothed Hermione's apprehension.

Though, perhaps it was the lack of obstacle behind her which led her to believe in countless unseen difficulties, all of which loomed unknowably up ahead.

"You check for a mirror to let Weasley and Longbottom in," Theo said to Hermione, his voice a low whisper. He glanced at Pansy and Daphne, who were both braced with their wands out as shadows flickered on the walls. "Keep them near you at all times," he said firmly to Hermione, "do you understand?"

"I'm not an idiot," Hermione hissed.

Theo shushed her with a finger to his lips, then was gone, seeking out Harry through one of the left-hand corridors as Hermione glanced around the near-blackness of the Ministry's darkened halls, trying to determine what to use as a portal.

Behind her, she jumped as something caught the corner of her eye, and spun rapidly to find a sudden, blinding force of illumination. "Pansy," she gasped too-loudly, pressing the heel of her hand to her thudding pulse as she turned to find Pansy scouring the walls with her wand out, a steady beam of light from the silent _Lumos _she'd cast. "Christ, you gave me such a fright—"

"Here," Pansy said impatiently, stepping quickly over the polished wood and beyond the marble busts of magical nobility lining the pathway of the right-hand corridor, all of which looked rather sinister without the prominence of day. "This'll do," she said, finding a reflective wall of brass behind one of the portraits, "won't it?"

"Yes, fine," Hermione said, beckoning to Daphne, who crept steadily backwards to reach them with her wand still aimed into the dark. There was a low gleam from the ring, then along the wall's edge came a door of nothing, as it usually did. As always, an imaginary hinge had opened for Hermione, yawning wide.

"I don't suppose we're meant to just wait for them?" Daphne asked, still staring suspiciously into the dark.

"We can't very well leave a portal open and scamper off," said Pansy crossly.

Hermione fidgeted; true, she couldn't have expected Ron and Neville to be waiting on the other side precisely where she had chosen to find an opening, but she had _hoped_, somehow…

She withered. Hope was always foolish, she supposed. "They ought to be along shortly," Hermione said with a grimace, more to herself than to either of them. She stepped over the threshold to peer inside, suddenly conscious of every sound, including her own swallow. "Daphne, can you call them?"

Grudgingly, Daphne turned away from her post of paranoia, stepping beside Hermione and charming her voice with her wand pointed at her throat. "We're in the atrium, on the right," she called into the doorway, voice amplified throughout the empty halls of the mirror realm. "Are you there?"

They waited, breaths suspended. Even Pansy, who was always reluctant to give any evidence of worry, looked as if she'd rather suffocate than breathe.

"Yes, we're coming," called Ron's voice, followed by the sound of footsteps. "Hold it open, we're nearly there—"

"Ah, so this is where you've been running off to, my effervescent bride," remarked a voice behind Hermione. "How very interesting indeed."

* * *

He had woken to the strange and very new sensation of being physically poured back into his body, filling it up slowly like a king-shaped cast-iron mold. Usually when the demon left him he came to with a bit more deliberation, something more akin to waking or even rising, resurfacing from a depth, but now it felt as if he had been in pseudo-existence somewhere else and was forcefully dragged back onto this plane; perhaps by an errant gust of wind, like a hellish sort of shudder.

Oddly enough, he found himself standing in one of the darkened Ministry corridors when it happened, opening his eyes to nothing more than the bare visibility of half-lit torches on the walls. He glanced around with confusion, expecting to see destruction; glanced at his feet, specifically, anticipating the need to step over whatever might be littering the floor. He was accustomed to doing that sort of thing, having been conditioned with vigilance over time as to whether things might be stepped on, crushed underfoot, or otherwise trodden irreversibly into the carpets. He had become worryingly familiar with the sight of entrails by then, though there was admittedly no real getting used to them.

Only he opened his eyes, and saw… nothing. Tasted nothing. No coppery excess to lick from his teeth. No rancid stench of death to twitch his nose. No retching from the smell of smoke that hung from the scorched walls, no shattered antiquities. No metals had been melted down, no furniture used for kindling. There had been no damage at all, as far as he could tell, though that meant very little. How many days had it been since he'd last held residence in his own corporeality? No telling. It was still dark, so it could have been minutes or hours, but it could just as easily have been weeks. His bones were sore, muscles weary, but not in the usual way. Typically, he woke to the strain of things swelling and healing, arduously filling up. Now his tiredness was ancient, the soreness of things long past, depleting. Nothing he felt in his limbs was recent. It was as if he had awoken to the resurrection of a soldier's phantom wound.

He suffered, suddenly, the desperate need to lie down; to sleep for a thousand years and then a thousand more after that, recovering from some atavistic exhaustion. He felt tired down to the very dregs of him, as if he'd recently cast away several dynasties of broken lifetimes, and now he was drained, emptied, hollowed out. There was a stiffness somewhere that hadn't existed before, like the very frame of him was weakened, and for a moment, he was sure he couldn't move.

But then he heard Hermione's voice, and for whatever reason, it provoked him to take a step.

* * *

Even in the dark, the glow of Draco's golden hair was unmistakable, and Hermione turned slowly, breath withheld, to find him standing alone in the center of the atrium's marble floor. Pansy and Daphne both turned on instinct, training their wands on his chest, and in response, Draco raised both hands in the air, half-mocking.

Then he staggered a bit, catching himself on one of the portrait busts, and Hermione blinked.

Blinked again.

Then Ron and Neville burst through the portrait and she miraculously returned to life, slamming the wall shut behind them as both men hurried to aim their wands.

"Stay back," she told Draco warily, as Pansy and Daphne cast bemused glances at her, waiting for instruction to strike. The question was obvious: _Was it him, really, or some other thing inside him?_ They expected her to know, which of course she couldn't with any certainty. She doubted it was his demon, given the lack of terrible pain ricocheting through her head at the sound of his speech, but she couldn't be sure he would remain that way interminably.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded.

True to form, he ignored her. "Ah, Longbottom, Weasley, there you are," said Draco, who was evidently choosing to behave as if he had _not_ been recently forced to use a statue of Lord Pius Peregrine to break his fall. "Such a pity. Thought you were dead."

There was something strange about his voice, too, though it wasn't the usual strangeness. He looked wobbly, which he never did. "Draco," Hermione said again. "Why are you here?"

"Well, about that, my cavernous darling," he said, and paused, eventually going with, "Potter is the short answer, I believe."

Abruptly, Hermione thought of his retreat from her earlier that evening, suffering the dull blow of what he must have done to gain access to that particular piece of information. "You used legilimency on me?" she demanded, suddenly flaring up with fury. "So you've killed him, then." The guilt of what she'd done to him vanished, replaced with anger at how he'd chosen to use what he'd stolen from her. "You killed him, didn't you? As good as!"

She wanted to hear him say it, but Draco merely stared at her.

And stared.

"You bastard," she spat, giving into a rush of temper. It needed an outlet, and he was so helpfully present to take the blow.

His shrug in return was somewhat less satisfying. "You used me first, my cunning wife."

"And what do you want from me now?" she prompted stiffly.

"Nothing," he said. "I simply followed your voice."

His gaze drifted again to the mirror she'd opened, then away.

"Is it really you?" Hermione asked him suspiciously, taking a careful step forward. "We still have a deal," she added, in case Voldemort was there, somewhere, and was listening. "You can't harm anyone under my protection. You swore it."

By then, Draco had regained a bit of stability, though he'd come no closer. "It's just me," he said in a tone of unadulterated bitterness. "You'd know, wouldn't you? If I were myself or my demon."

He was right about that, but still. It wasn't as if Voldemort didn't have a charming habit of popping up uninvited.

"Is Harry dead?" asked Hermione, bracing herself for the answer.

She could see Draco grimace, then wipe it away with the palm of his hand. "I suppose I might have done something."

"Like what?" muttered Pansy, and Draco glared at her.

"I don't know. Some amount of carnage, I suppose. Though," he added in a tone of disinterest, "I can only base my suspicions on the last twenty-one years of my life, so do with that what you will."

Hermione's anger with him was tempered only by the knowledge that whatever damage Voldemort—or Draco himself—had caused, he might not be done yet. After all, plenty of people in this room were ripe for carnivorous demise. Was this a trap? If it was, it was a strange one. Draco had four wands on him and hadn't lifted a finger, but she couldn't be sure that meant he wasn't dangerous. There was no telling what he'd led her into, and the darkness of the Ministry was even more foreboding now that she had no way of knowing what lay within it. The added torment of the unknown was destabilizing, to say the least.

What might his demon have done?

"We've got to go," Pansy said to Hermione in an undertone. "Whatever he's up to, we certainly won't know by standing here. And if Potter's dead, or Dumbledore—"

Hermione didn't want to think what sort of fallout might occur from the Minister being found within piles of rubble and ash. She glanced at Draco, who shrugged.

"Go, then," he said, and Hermione stiffened. Too easy.

Or was it?

"We can't let him out of our sight, can we?" whispered Daphne hesitantly. "At least if we know where he is, we know where Voldemort _isn't_, don't we?"

"We can't exactly keep him _with_ us either if he turns," Pansy hissed.

Hermione opened her mouth to remind them that her husband wasn't a vampire—just a king with a resident creature who seemed to take over on the basis of nothing more than a fleeting whim—but it didn't seem worth getting into at the moment. It was an unfortunate truth that they could neither keep him in sight nor be rid of him, so Hermione thought for a moment, then shook her head.

"Bind him," she said to Pansy. "His hands especially. You two," she added, turning to an obviously skittish Ron and Neville, "keep your wands on him."

Ron hesitated. "Are you sure this is a good idea? If Voldemort resurfaces—"

Hermione glanced over her shoulder at Draco, who made no argument when Pansy cast the spell to trap both his hands in a low, glowing cage of her magic. He did not even fight back; not that Hermione had expected him to. He knew as well as she did that it wouldn't hold him if Voldemort decided not to be contained. He was allowing it now only because he knew she was right not to trust him.

_I might have done something_, he said, but she had heard what remained unspoken.

_Please forgive me for whatever I have done._

She jumped as something touched her arm, turning to find Theo there.

"Oh, Christ, Theo you startled m-"

He held a finger to his lips, hastily, then pointed behind him, gesturing down the hall to one of the Wizengamot audience chambers. Then he paused, glancing with confusion at Draco, and Hermione winced.

"I know," she mouthed, "but we've got him. For now."

Theo nodded warily, but beckoned for her to follow him. "Harry," he mouthed, and with a forceful motion to the others, she followed in his wake.

The knowledge that Draco was behind her in magical restraints was a discomfiting one. Had it really been only hours before that she had been locked in his embrace, enfolded in his arms, taking from his lungs when she breathed? She didn't know whether her disquiet was fury, disillusionment, or the particular kind of anger that came from being despondent; from being so dismayed her heart was sure to break.

Yes, she had used him as much as he had used her, but only to help him, to find a way to keep him alive. He, meanwhile, had shamelessly nicked something from her, giving it up to the master of his mind without remorse. Were other people so worthless he could cast them off without a second thought? By now Harry could be dead; he could be broken, he could be tortured, he could be—

"That wasn't what I had in mind," said Harry's voice angrily, and for a moment, Hermione was relieved and annoyed in the same stroke; he was fine, it seemed, but no less agitated than he had been for weeks. It appeared the non-acquiescence of other people was no less a prison for Harry Potter than the confines of a mirrored realm. "What we need is a way to remove Voldemort from Draco—"

"Which I can only do with possession of the Hallows," came Dumbledore's measured voice. "Harry, my boy, a demon's power is no match for an ordinary wizard's wand, however well-intentioned it may be. Voldemort is to be regarded most for his inhumanity; his incapacity to exist alongside creatures of empathy. We must uncover all three Hallows if we wish to have any hope of defeating him, and Voldemort must never gain access to that wand."

Perhaps it was Harry's disobedience that had upset Hermione, or the fact that her husband was currently in magical chains she herself had ordered. Perhaps it was that said husband's mere presence here was evidence of his betrayal. Perhaps her entire marriage was an ongoing sequence of ceaseless betrayal, and she was wrong to ever consider otherwise.

Or perhaps her patience had simply run out.

"And what exactly is it that you think possessing the Hallows will do?" she called into the chamber, and Dumbledore turned to face her, the twinkling patience in his eyes reasserting itself; twinklier, if possible, and faultless in its composure.

"Well, as I'm sure Her Majesty recalls my saying, demons cannot be killed the way humans can," said Dumbledore. "They are summoned by magic, not born, and therefore there is no 'life' in the traditional sense. Voldemort in particular was summoned by Lucius," Dumbledore continued, "which means—"

He stopped, eyes widening. Presumably he had caught sight of Draco, who had been prodded in by Pansy.

"Which means?" Hermione prompted, but Dumbledore was no longer listening.

"You have the wand, don't you?" he said to Draco, and Hermione turned over her shoulder, bristling as she saw the way Dumbledore's eyes changed, going harder, somehow; darker. "It's what your father used to summon him, you know. Voldemort wouldn't have come if not for your father and that wand, and now he will not be satisfied until he has possession of us all."

"The demon seems to find me hospitable enough," said Draco, and for the first time, Hermione caught glimpses of the shadows below his eyes, restless and violent, and the slightly too-sharp angles of his cheeks, his chin, his nose. He looked ever so slightly less beautiful than usual; though, to her, the glimpses of humanity had always been quietly reassuring. She had longed to see even the slightest evidence that he was something shy of a divinity, and a malicious one at that.

At the moment, he wore only what he'd worn to her chambers: a white linen shirt, left loose, tucked into breeches. No extravagance, no blatant costumery of riches. No crown. No cruel beauty. No hellish perfection.

She had wanted him to be a boy—a _man_—and at the moment, he was precisely that.

Dumbledore withdrew his wand, and Hermione bit down on something foolish, like _no, stop, leave him alone—_knowing, as she did, that saying so would serve no purpose, aside from showing her own weakness. Draco was not in danger from Dumbledore, nor from anyone else. He was always far more danger to them, and everyone in the room already knew it. Theo's shoulders were braced, his lips half a second from parting. Daphne was tense, and Pansy, too. Draco could destroy them all without a moment's notice, and he didn't require Hermione's defense.

Plus, he had recently betrayed her.

Which yes, she had done first.

But still.

"Perhaps you think you're doing an honorable thing," Dumbledore said in a low voice, "but I can help you if you tell me where it is. I can sever Voldemort from you, Draco, I promise. I can help you," he said again, "and set you free."

"Why would you want to?" Draco asked bluntly, and there was something missing from his voice, Hermione thought. Some flame had gone out somewhere, leaving behind only wisps of smoke for evidence it had been there to begin with. "I am king, which you despise. I serve no purpose to your political agenda, which is all that has ever mattered to you. So why not kill me and be done with it?"

A tiny voice in Hermione's head whispered: _because once he kills you, he will lose the weapon of his adoration. He will not dirty his hands with your blood because once he does, he can't go back. _The Minister who killed a king, even one possessed by a demon, would still go down in history a murderer, and nothing more.

"I have no wish to harm you," Dumbledore began beseechingly, but Draco cut him off.

"Nor do you have much of a wish to help me," Draco pointed out. "Clearly you knew I contained a demon from the moment it was summoned, and yet you did nothing?" He gave a tart, brittle laugh. "Should I thank you for that, Minister?"

For a moment, the two simply stared at each other, wordless.

"Kill me now," Draco suggested, holding up his bound hands, and Hermione flinched. "I'm right here, aren't I? I've not fought back. Kill me now and have it done with."

The moment anyone tried, Hermione was sure Voldemort would be back. Still, whatever the purpose of his theatrics, Draco was doing an excellent job of trapping Dumbledore, who looked increasingly desperate.

"Where's the wand?" Dumbledore said again, adamant. "I have the cloak. I have the stone." Hermione touched the ring on her finger lightly, defensively. "If you give me the wand—"

"You do not have the cloak," came Harry's voice, and Hermione looked at him, surprised, as he set his jaw, eyes narrowing. "I haven't said you could have it."

"Harry, my boy, don't be foolish," said Dumbledore, turning to him, though Hermione caught the motion of Theo stepping closer to Harry, watchfully protective. "Did you not seek me out for help, for guidance? What we need is the Hallows. You realize, don't you? That he must have the wand," Dumbledore said, jabbing a finger to Draco as his voice rose with urging. "It is the only explanation, and the moment Voldemort realizes he need only kill the king to possess it—"

"Interesting," said Theo.

Only—

Hermione shrank back from the sound of Theo's voice, which struck her like the sensation of spindle-thin claws. The tendril of sound scraped against her thoughts, searing them with pain, and she felt the chill of acknowledgement rushing like ice though her veins, limbs going cold.

It wasn't Theo.

* * *

It all happened so quickly. One moment they were standing there in the Wizengamot chambers and the next Theo had taken hold of Harry and Hermione and lunged into Draco, carrying all three of them through the boundaries of time and space to land beside Queen Narcissa's lake before the dawn. The sun was beginning to rise, tinting the sky that singular pitch of dusky amber, and Draco thought with amusement that of course he felt empty.

Because for once, he _was_ empty. For the first time in his life, he was alone.

So, the demon's tricks extended to him, then. Perhaps it was some sort of compliment that it had not jumped bodies before, or perhaps it had done so many times and Draco had simply never felt it. Perhaps he had never truly felt anything.

The magic binding his hands snapped like a twig, cast aside.

"Call the wand," said the demon in Theo's body, and Draco marveled a bit at the unfettered taste of fear on his tongue. It was not entirely dissimilar to blood; there was an underlying sensation of salt, and an otherwise coppery acridity.

"What makes you so certain I have it, O Illustrious One?" Draco asked, and the demon—with Theo's dark eyes, only more elegantly feline, and with a different version of Theo's mouth; the _wrong_ version—smiled grimly at him before winding up, punching him hard in the sternum.

"You think you know pain, princelet?" asked the demon, whispering it in Draco's ear as he doubled over, choking. "You know nothing of pain. I have always kept you from the worst of it. I have always been your only friend, haven't I? Your savior, your mentor, your guardian… and yet what have you done but lie to me, defy me? Call the wand," the demon commanded again, wrestling Draco to his knees and holding his face to the water, wrenched back by the grips of his hair.

"Why should I, O Font of Wisdom? You'll only kill me," Draco commented as genially as possible, laughing a bit as the demon gave his head another firm tug. "Whether I'm nearly dead or truly dead, what difference does it make?"

The demon smiled Theo's smile at him; the one Theo used to use when they were skipping an afternoon of lessons, a mischief benignly keen for destruction, only it was garish and too-bright with triumph. It had an undertone of egoistic victory that Theo had never possessed.

"I'll kill her," the demon whispered, releasing Draco so abruptly he nearly tumbled headfirst from the bank of the enchanted lake. The demon shot out a hand, summoning valorous Hermione from where she'd been deposited on the banks to take hold of her shoulder, positioning her in Draco's line of sight. "I need that ring she wears, don't I, princelet? And it's rather stuck, as I understand it, so… poor thing," the demon sighed, "I'll have to take the whole finger instead."

The demon reached one of Theo's arms around intrepid Hermione's waist, pulling her close. "Be a good girl and tell him to fetch it for me, little witch," its voice said sweetly, and Draco watched her shudder from the sound, scraping and puncturing in her mind.

He couldn't stand to look at her like this, turning his face to the water instead.

"We had a deal," Draco said to his own glassy reflection. "You said you wouldn't harm her."

"Oh, I said a lot of things, princelet," the demon sighed, glancing down at him, "and I'm not the only one enamored with my lies. You told me you didn't know what happened to the wand, but I think we both know better now, don't we?"

"Just give it to him, Draco," said dauntless Hermione, swallowing hard. She met his eye in the water's reflection, staring intently at him. "It's just an invulnerable wand. Not an invincible one."

Yes, and this was only a demon, of course.

"Listen to your queen, princelet," said the demon, stroking a finger down her cheek in a motion that made Draco's stomach twist with fury, with anguish, with hatred. He had never felt anything so… _purely_ before. So lushly untainted. This was loathing in its most unfettered form, unbridled. Strange to think his first true emotion would be something so passionately blackened he could feel it rotting him from the inside, but at least it was clear he was alone now. He could feel as fully—as abundantly and as ruinously—as he wished.

"Draco." Merciless Hermione's whisper was quiet, but sure. "Please, will you do it for me?"

He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of the question. She wanted him to fetch the wand that might soon destroy the world as they knew it. She wanted him to put an impossible weapon into the hands of a creature who no longer required him whether he lived or died. Here was a woman of principle, of morality and righteousness itself, who had seen firsthand what his iniquitous hands had done—the only woman alive who could know how he was chained to every wretched command ever given—and she wasn't telling him to save his own life; no.

She was _asking_ him to do it.

Draco stretched one palm out over the surface of the lake, bitterly closing his eyes. Fine, he thought, but only because you asked me. I'd have been happy to waste away, to suffer rather than surrender, only I've done it now, for you. Only because it was you who asked.

"Come back now," he said to his father's wand, giving in. "Come back."

There was a moment of gruesome fanfare in the way it rose up from the lake, presented above the surface like Excalibur itself, and Hermione stumbled as the demon released her, snatching the wand from where it hovered over the surface of the water. She crashed into Draco's back, one hand finding his shoulder—

"Fall forward," hissed faithless Hermione, and Draco blinked. A moment ago he'd been on his knees beside the lake, watching the demon use Theo's long arms to reach for the wand, but now he and Hermione were standing inside the castle of Hogwarts, all the doors blown open; keys glittering around her face, like fractured rays of light.

"Fall forward, Draco, now!"

—and when his knees sank into sodden earth, he heaved in a breath, preparing to tumble headfirst into an icy pond simply because she had said so; because it was her; because somehow, in a strange and unfunny twist of fate, he had become hers, even with her reasonable reluctance to be his.

There was a blade of sound behind him, falling like an axe—"I won't leave him, not again!"—and a scream so full of rage it clapped like thunder around his head, leaving the very earth itself to tremble. Draco braced himself for the crash into his mother's beloved lake, the shattering of the only beauty her life had ever contained, while Hermione's hand pressed into his shoulder, guiding him ever forward, ever onward.

Until he either ended, or went on.

* * *

Draco fell onto the bank of the mirrored lake and glanced up, stunned and only slightly mussed, golden curls tumbling onto his forehead and then remaining there, stubbornly distraught. It would have been funny, really, the look on his face, if only Harry had not insisted on staying behind.

"I understand now," had been Harry's low murmur to Hermione, addressing her in near-silence as they had been forced to watch Voldemort taunting Draco from the constructs of Theo's angular limbs. Harry, who was unable to take his eyes from the shape of Theo's shoulders, whispered, "I can't do it. Even knowing it's a demon, even seeing it with my own eyes, I can't harm him, I can't hurt him. I'm sorry," he said, and then again, miserably, "I'm so sorry."

She should have known he would choose to stay behind, slipping from her grasp when she tried to pull him after them.

"You _idiot_," Hermione flung at Draco, perhaps because he was the only one there, which meant that once again, there was no one else to fling things at. "You broke into my mind, you bloody idiot prince, and _worse_, you were willing to give up Harry!"

"First of all, I'm an idiot king, and I don't suppose it occurred to you that you betrayed me far worse, my nefarious little fig tree," Draco shot in return, rising uncomfortably to his feet. She withered slightly, determined not to get caught up in a pointless argument about which betrayal may or may not have had more merit. Besides, he seemed to be experiencing aches and pains in a new, upsetting way, and stared distractedly at the evidence of cracking from his treasonous knees. "Did you hear that? It made a _sound_—"

"Yes, well, welcome to the prison of mortality," Hermione grumbled, beginning to pace beside the mirror-lake and declining to point out that at least _his_ method of captivity didn't habitually choose to bleed. It was growing lighter out now, day beginning to break, and there were more pressing concerns to be dealt with. For example, she had rather irresponsibly left the palace in the hands of a Theo-shaped demon and, assuming Harry didn't die, then… a rather irresponsible wretch of a man, however charmingly well-intentioned.

"Listen, we'll have to sort out what we're doing next. I don't suppose you still have… you know." She grimaced. "Magic?"

Draco raised a hand, snapping his fingers. He produced a thin wisp of light, a flicker of something, which immediately sank back into the expanse of his palm.

"I don't think so," he said irritably, glaring at her as if it were somehow her fault he'd come to rely so fully on the magic of some other thing. "Not like I used to, in any case. Do you?"

"What do you mean _do I_?" she shot back, agitated. "You know perfectly well I've been utterly useless since you destroyed my wand!"

"You used occlumency rather successfully without it, my forgetful little heartstring," he said, and then amended, "Or legilimency, I suppose." He frowned. "I never quite understood why people bother drawing the line when it's so obviously a matter of both—"

"Fine. So I can do one ruddy thing without a wand," Hermione cut in exasperatedly, shoving her skirts out of the way to increase the pace of her aimless trodding, "and it was only because we'd done it so many times before. But if we're going to go back and track down a demon—"

"I beg your pardon, my superfluous spring shower?" demanded Draco.

"We can't just _leave_ them!" Hermione snapped, rounding on him. "Voldemort's got the Elder Wand, in case that particular detail escaped your notice! And fine, maybe we kept him from possessing all three Hallows," she said, relieved a bit about that, if indeed possessing all three meant anything, "but I think we can safely assume he has the cloak, which means—"

"You," interrupted Draco unexpectedly, and she faltered.

"Me what?"

"_You_ stopped him from possessing all three Hallows, peach blossom," Draco clarified, pairing the statement with a glare. "I had very little, if anything, to do with it."

"So?" Hermione asked, bracing for whatever insult came next.

"So nothing," Draco said. "I'm just pointing it out as a fact."

"And?"

"And what, my treasured shallot?"

"I—" She broke off, suddenly so annoyed with him she could hardly bring herself to speak. "I… you—"

"Yes, what is it?" he asked, brushing his hair from his forehead. Without Voldemort's occupation in his body, he looked… different. The same, but somehow… distinct. Or possibly it wasn't his appearance at all, but something else; something more metaphysical. Perhaps the fact that each of his expressions were now uncontestedly his own. That this was his own perpetual scowl; his unbearable grimace; his upturned smile that meant he was laughing at her; his, his, his. The furrow between his brows was all his own, unaided. The look on his face, like maybe he could look and look and never have his fill of looking, was exclusively, imperfectly his. The shape of his mouth was his, from his father or perhaps his mother, but it was not a demon's. It did not belong to some hellish usurper, and it was being aimed at her, relentlessly, like some sort of horrifyingly persuasive weapon.

"I'm angry," she informed him, and to her embarrassment it was a whisper, because he was coming closer to her, and this was not in her head. True, it was in some sort of mirror-world that she had possibly invented, which was a difficult distinction to make, but still; this was _him_, really and truly, and there was no chance a demon could follow her here. Hadn't she proven that for months? She was here with him, alone, and she was furious for a moment, remembering everything that had led her into now. She raised a hand, preparing to shove him at arm's length—

But he caught her hand with his, gingerly curling her fingers into the expanse of his palm.

"What would you like to do, my ray of morning light?" he asked neutrally. "Scream?"

"Yes." She was breathless with what she could only assume was fury. This was rage, wasn't it? The pounding in her chest ricocheted into her ribs, like only hatred could do.

"I," she began, and swallowed the dryness in her throat. "I want to shout at you."

He waved one hand, beckoning her, though he didn't release her with the other.

"Then do it," he said. "I made a deal to keep you safe, my carnivorous dawn. Should I regret that now?"

"It nearly didn't work," she said tightly, "so yes."

He stepped closer. "And where do you think we'd be if not for that, hm? You showed the demon my secrets. Even if Dumbledore had not said—"

"Yes, I know, I know." She tore her gaze away, flinching, because she wasn't stupid enough not to see the parts of it that were her fault. "But I… I was trying to—"

He slid his fingers between hers, interlacing them.

"Fight with me," he beckoned her at a whisper. "And let me fight back."

She shivered, hesitant.

"You," she said, "are arrogant and self-serving. You're apathetic and unfocused. You're a uniquely terrible king."

He leaned forward; near enough to snatch the words from her lips.

"Anything else?" he asked neutrally.

"Ambivalence to the point of immorality." It escaped her in a rush. "You are complicit in the attitudes of your nobles. You feed their prejudice."

"And?"

"You care nothing for the lives of others. You have no regard for anyone else."

"And?"

"You belittle me." She swallowed. "You taunt me. You undervalue me. You—"

"No," he said forcefully, startling her. "No, maybe I misused you once, but I do not undervalue you now. I value you," he clarified, "greatly. I would not have asked so much of you if I did not."

"It was never your right to use me," Hermione retorted, bristling.

"Did you not use me in return?"

"Of course I did, to _survive_—"

"Do I question your right to survival, or do you only question mine?"

"You—" She broke off. "You bullied me into this marriage."

"I was bullied into this marriage myself."

"You stole my secrets."

"You forced your way into mine."

"You used my feelings against me!"

"And your confession to me was a lie."

She thought of the names he called her, the way he wounded her with the indifference of sentiment. The way he had kissed her inside the battlements of her mind like she meant something, only to see what her pain could produce.

"You hurt me," she whispered shamefully, and he tilted her chin up to meet her eye.

That grey gaze was so very, cruelly lovely, and she knew he was thinking of how she'd kissed him; how she had touched him until he finally went weak in her arms.

"You broke my very tired heart," he said.

It seemed, given their confessions, that they ought to hate each other. That the many ways in which one was the destruction of the other should have been enough to pull them apart, and then to hold them there; polarities. Why, then, did it sound like he was thanking her, or that she was begging him? Was it madness, delirium, what? Was it irony changing the tones of their voices, or bitterness causing their reckless mouths to lie? Was it because they had been empty so long they might never have allowed another human being to harm them, if not for the one who so brazenly got close?

She hardly knew what she was doing when she tugged his mouth down to hers, wrapping her arms around his neck and suffering the clash of circumstance that was their kiss of inevitability. From the moment their lips touched, there were many things it was not: frivolous. Soft. Unfeeling. Of the things it _was_, she couldn't be sure. She knew she could taste his sense of relief; of release, of reprisal. The last time they had kissed she had taken from him, so now it was him pulling her to the silken moisture of the grass, laying her atop her cloak beside the still waters of the bewitching, enchanted lake.

His hand traveled under the heavy material of her dress to find the hem of her shift, drawing it up her thigh. It occurred to her to stop him, only she registered with reeling disbelief that her hands were busy elsewhere, tugging away his shirt and pulling it free from his breeches. She traced the shape of his abdomen until the counters of his stomach pebbled below her touch, and then she kissed his neck, his shoulder, his chest, idly taking stock of his fingers wrestling with her stockings. By then, her stays were so tight beneath her bodice she felt sure she was going to burst, and Draco dropped his head, kissing the tops of her breasts and reaching around blindly, lifting her up enough to fumble with the lacing. The pressure on her ribs abruptly relaxed, and she exhaled; a low sound, a moan, that left her lips in penitent longing as she collapsed back to the ground.

His kiss drifted slowly up her neck, finding her mouth, lingering sweetly. His skin was scalding against the cold wind, red where her lips had touched it, and she drew him closer, curving into him.

"I want," he began uncertainly, palms floating above her waist as if he feared where they might land, and she laughed into his mouth, drawing his hand under the bunched material of her skirt until he could stroke the curves of her thighs with them.

"The day I married you, every word I spoke was a lie," she said, and he stiffened. "The promises I made to you that day were nothing. Less than nothing."

He tried to pull away, but she held his hand fast, drawing it up further, to the undeniable slickness that lingered below her shift.

"I will promise you now that as of this day, you have me." His fingers stroked her experimentally, gingerly, and they both gasped a little, the sound of his low groan melting onto her tongue when she spurred him on with a kiss. "My loyalty is yours. My friendship. My faithfulness, and my—" She let her head fall back, eyes closing, as his fingers worked her more steadily now, the heel of his hand held fast between her legs. "This," she finished, swallowing hard. "You have this, as well."

"Do I?" he asked, and traveled lower, down the front of her bodice, down to the exposed bones of her hips, his lips brushing the velvet of her skin with delicate, testing hesitancy as he raised her skirt above his head. He tasted her lightly, stroking a slow line with his tongue, and then reached up to grip her hand, closing his own around her wrist. "Tell me," he said, and she could feel his breath, warm and throaty, when he rasped it, kissing the curve of her thigh. "Please."

She reached for him, never less queenly than the moment she yanked him up and shoved his breeches down, insistent. If he could plead, then so would she.

"Draco," she said, admiring the look of hunger on his face, and how desperate it was; how tragically, desolately human. "You have all of me."

"All?"

His gaze lingered on her face, waiting. Expectant, as she must have surely once looked at him.

"Ask me," she said, a mirror of his question to her, and he bent his head to hers, drawing her hand to the pulse in his chest.

"Whatever this madness is," he said, resting her palm over his heart as he tugged her hips lower, leveling his with hers. "Am I alone in it?"

Scars faintly covered his chest. She wondered if there would be more of them now, blooming slowly over his skin. Perhaps he would be so decorated in the marks of his past she would start to understand it as if she had been there with him, beside him. Already she would feel the echoes of his trauma as if they were her own.

"No." The word came out a whimper, and she, aching, closed her eyes when he filled her at last; slowly, gradually, with ungodly patience. He pushed himself deeper until he was buried within her, the two of them frozen that way, left to the pain and excruciating pleasure of being whole.

"No, you're not alone," she said. "Though it is unquestionably madness."

He gave a desperate laugh, frenzied with yearning, and she slid her fingers through his curls as he began to move again, the two of them drawn apart only long enough to find their way back to the start. She felt it, pain and pleasure, mounting until the sensations were indistinguishable; until she could no longer remember the taste of either without the punishing fulfillment of both. She stroked her teeth along the line of his neck, savoring every inch that she could reach, and when peril seemed most imminent—when there was no doubt another stroke might send her careening into the euphoria of anguish—she didn't fight it; she let the slow debilitation wash over her in waves. A burst of excess sensation (too much, too much, _toomuch toomuch toomuch—_) thrilled to paramount ascension, and then, amid swells of ravagement, collapsed. She let herself wrench, contorted and crumbling, and held him close until he fell against her in the grass, choking on both the satisfaction and the torment.

They stayed that way for several minutes, locked together and unwilling to release. Soon enough they would be individuals again, separate beings; he would be himself alone and she would be herself solitarily, though perhaps that was the secret to the sweetness of unlikely joining. That it was love and hate both made everything such a maelstrom of contradiction. That she could belong to him by law and blood and yet still be so hard-won by him was a mystery so transfixing she wanted to solve it again and again; until the candles flickered out, extinguishing on midnight gasps. Here, in a place he kept sacred like the secrets of his heart, he had loved her, and she had loved him back. However it ended, whenever it did, it would be pretty enough to remember fondly, replaying behind locked doors within the castle of her mind.

She was just closing her eyes to dazed imaginings of crisp sheets and firelight when Draco turned his head, finding her ear.

"My love," he said softly, and whatever she had been before, it broke like the heat of her yearning. She, with everything that remained of her from beginning to end, was vibrant and effervescent, bright and iridescent, and without question, she was beautiful indeed.

She didn't have to see herself to know it.

* * *

Perhaps unsurprisingly, they began almost immediately to bicker about how best to return to the proper side of things, or even where it was they presently were. True, this time their arguments were interrupted by him tucking a curl behind her ear while she ranted, or her adjusting the collar of his shirt while he addressed her obvious derangement, but such were the consequences of love in a time of acute political diplomacy. There was so little time for the proper affectations of dissent; even less of the requisite shame to keep him from gazing at her overlong.

Invariably she insisted, as she was so often inclined to do, on having her way, and because he was not occupied by a demon but instead saddled with a stubborn little know-it-all whom he had recently come to consider the most miraculous thing he'd ever set eyes on, he grudgingly agreed. They would go through her chambers, she said, where surely Pansy and Daphne would be waiting, and if anyone could be trusted—according to her, at least, though again Draco had doubts—it was her two ladies-in-waiting. "What we need is _information_, a _plan_," proclaimed devious Hermione, her eyes getting that mad, oversized look Draco had previously only associated with her desperate attempts to kill him, which of course he had not loved before, or even liked. Shamefully, it was such a lovely change to be privy to an assassination attempt that Draco was perhaps too lenient, and only scoffed once or twice.

It was fascinating how well Hermione was able to traverse the palace grounds in their reflected state, though he supposed she was used to that particular extent of her magic by now. He had thought, initially, that perhaps this was something she had built in her mind, as the recreation of Hogwarts had been, but even she could not have gotten these details so close to accurate. This tree, that shrub, this collection of rare antiques, that sword hanging above the mantle… it was all quite unlikely that she could have invented it from memory, though it was worth observing that the stone had never done any such thing before.

"Tell me truly," said impatient Hermione, coming to a sudden halt that sent Draco careening into her back. "Why did you give me this ring?"

Draco shrugged, pausing—with commendable restraint, he thought—only to brush a single ghost of a kiss along the back of her neck. "My mother told me to keep it safe. Out of the palace was easiest."

"Yes," she said, curling one finger absently around the lip of his breeches, "but—"

"Must I always be required to tell you how fantastically not-unclever you are?" he sighed, pairing the statement with a groan. Despite the many advantages of being freed from his demonic prison, he noticed his body was now highly susceptible to things like hunger and tiredness, which were not nearly as marvelous as orgasm or unhindered thought. "Though, once again, you _did_ put it on, so—never mind, perhaps I do have to remind you," he said, removing her hand from his breeches, "or at least request that you attempt as much not-uncleverness as you can summon the fortitude to possess."

Brutish Hermione sent a magnificent backhand arc careening into his chest, swatting away his surliness. "But why me?"

"Because you saw me for what I was, my violent delight," he said. "And you hated me, which most people found to be unwise at the time."

"Why not give it to Theo instead?"

"He's got enough problems," Draco said, before remembering that was still quite true and shivering slightly as they walked the palace's empty corridors. "Besides," he added, "the demon always did suspect Theo of knowing more than he should. Said his contemptuous nature was 'decadently promising' and became quite adamant about destroying him, which is why I had to keep my distance. Easier, once Theo started to spend more of the year at Hogwarts," he said, recounting it impassively enough. "By then I was mostly relieved he was out of the way."

"But you were alone," said observant Hermione, with something Draco might have called sympathy, though its delivery was brisk enough he didn't have to linger on the thought.

"In my experience, most demonic things intend, in general, to make you feel you are alone," he said. "I suppose it took trapping you alongside me to cause a rupture to my usual behavior, in the end. Otherwise, I suspect I'd have simply gone along with everything I was told."

He quickened his step, recalling that Theo _did_ rather need to be rescued (though how or from what, Draco had no earthly idea) when impulsive Hermione took hold of his elbow and yanked him back with a surprising strength, flashing him a wide-eyed look of golden apprehension before drawing up on her toes and crashing into him again for another dulcet, honeyed kiss. He felt the impact of her rushing through his limbs, mellifluous, and then she pulled away, all business again.

"Be sure to lace my stays properly before we pass through, or there'll be hell to pay with Pansy," said mad, glorious, beastly Hermione, at whom Draco had to fight not to smile quite stupidly and without restraint. Having free rein of his emotions was going to be a challenge; the impulse to fall at her feet was rather a regrettable one, given its frequency. Unbecoming, at the very least, and yet here was, ready to collapse a kingdom on one careless word from her.

Very dangerous indeed that kings were not forcefully celibate. How could one oversee a government such as his, all while having a wife such as this one? His singular desire in the moment was less to secure his regime than it was to paint the bend of her knee, perhaps against the softness of the garden in spring.

Though, again, Theo.

"Right," Draco said brusquely, permitting himself to be pulled toward her chambers and clambering onto her vanity after her, passing through to her wardrobe on the other side. "So this is how you've been escaping me, then? Just a little jaunt into a parallel realm?"

"I don't know if it's a parallel realm, really," said studious Hermione, frowning a bit with academic thought as she sealed the mirror behind them and Draco climbed down first, waiting. "It does seem to have rules this one doesn't have, I suppose."

"Well, I beg your pardon for not immediately having the appropriate terminology at hand," said Draco, which was as humiliatingly close to swooning as he had ever allowed himself in the past.

"Shut up," said brilliant Hermione, and when he reached to help her down, settling both hands on her hips, she kissed his lips fleetingly and with impatience; a mix of fondness and exasperation that tasted very much like fresh-cut grass and freedom.

She looked quite right in this outfit, the stains of greenery on her simple riding dress more suited to her coloring than any of the silks she'd ever worn. True, there was nothing quite like seeing her in the full regalia of her magic, but this was quite nice, too. She still wasn't a courtier's daughter by any means—certainly not with that hair, nor that expression of early-onset nearsightedness that meant she squinted a bit when she was thinking—but by now, there was something different and irreplaceable when he looked at her.

Perhaps it was that he felt a burning need to protect her from any harm that would ever come to her that gave her that softened glow he couldn't unsee. Or maybe he'd just gotten used to knowing that seeing her meant setting his eyes on something good and kind and fair, and also just treacherous enough to keep things interesting.

She clambered down on her own and flashed him a stern glance of urgency, like a very shrewd come-hither, and he followed with heightened caution, wondering what he would do if anything demonic were to suddenly jump out. He became distinctly aware of how vulnerable she was, and hastily reached over as they strode out of her wardrobe, snatching up the embroidery shears and pressing them into her hand.

"Just in case," he said, and though she looked up at him with surprise and possibly gratitude, he was busy propelling himself ahead, taking an eagle-eyed lead with her at his heels. He burst through the doors of her bedroom, making his way through the labyrinth of rooms to emerge in her public drawing room, and then stopped short upon arrival.

"Oh, Lady Pansy," he said, and while he had not known much about her, the look on his face told him indiscreetly that something quite terrible had recently been done, or was about to be. He slammed the door shut behind him, coughing to obscure the sound of Hermione's muffled huff of indignation as she must have collided with the door, and continued to take in what was rather a problematic sight: Pansy held at wand-point, and troublingly, by his own personal guards.

"What's all this?" asked Draco, pausing to lean his back against the door, securing it in the latch in the event reckless Hermione attempted something foolish.

In answer, there was a warp in the air, followed by the apparition of a new figure.

It wasn't often that Draco had to question whether he was the most handsome man in a room, and he discovered on the spot that he didn't much care for the experiment. This person, whoever he was, had rich, satin-black waves built upon cheekbones designed to make any woman weep, with eyes so piercing and blue it was, frankly put, quite insulting. The man, exquisitely dressed, wore a stunning embroidered overcoat, paired with an intricate waistcoat of green silk so dark that, like all Draco's favorite clothing, it looked to be black from certain angles; by contrast, Draco suddenly remembered he was wearing nothing more than a rumpled linen shirt and breeches, and hurried to fold his arms over his chest.

Belatedly, he realized Theo had also apparated in, and while Theo looked very much how Draco felt—the shadows under Theo's eyes were now so starkly violet Draco might have worn their precise hue to a midsummer banquet—he seemed to be no worse for wear.

That is, until Draco realized the room, himself included, had been quite alarmingly frozen.

"Hello, princelet," said the handsome man, whose fingers were wrapped around a wand that was unfortunately all too familiar. "Forgive my lack of niceties, but I was always less devoted to the drudgery of protocol. Simply put: take a step wrong and young Theodore will learn what it means to be worse than dead. Are we clear?"

Then the moment swelled back into place, and beatifically, the handsome man smiled.

"I told you, didn't I, that the king would be back soon?" he said, glancing over his shoulder at the guards. "I'm sure the others will be pleased to hear it. Tell Nott, would you? Now that we have the perpetrator in custody, the Ministry will want to begin an official inquisition."

Theo, Draco noted, glanced away, as did Pansy. One guard scuttled of, eyes vacant.

"Remind me which of my delightful courtiers you are," Draco beckoned to his demon, whose smile broadened.

"None of them, Your Majesty. I am Lord Voldemort," said the former occupant of Draco's cursed bloodline, "and I have been elected by your nobles to fill the unfortunate vacancy until a new Minister can be chosen."

"New Minister?" Draco echoed, suppressing a tide of panic as he had so often done until today. Behind him, he felt the handle turn—evidence of brash Hermione's daredevil attempts to insert herself into danger—but he remained steadfast, holding it shut.

He raised his voice, adding, "What's happened to Dumbledore?"

"Very clever, Your Majesty, pretending not to know," said Lord Voldemort, sounding bored, "but I'm afraid justice will prevail, as by now Harry Potter will have told the entire court the truth."

Draco's stomach sank. "The truth of what?"

"How the two of you hatched a plot to assassinate our beloved former Minister, of course," sighed the demon, crossing himself solemnly, "may he rest in pieces."

Beside the demon, Theo turned a slightly putrid shade of green. There was, of course, no point in telling a demon that idiomatically, it was showing its hand; presumably it already knew better, or should have, anyway, after spending twenty-one years alongside Draco's impeccable grasp of language and decorum.

"You cannot arrest a king," Draco said firmly, though the tightness in his chest indicated otherwise. "Not without evidence."

"Yes, well, we'll see what the others say about that, won't we? By the way, your courtiers have really taken a shine to me," said Lord Voldemort, intimating pleasant surprise. "Can't think what it is… perhaps my sensibilities appeal to them? In any case, you'll have to wait for us to gather, of course; procedurally these things can be a nightmare—Oh, and speaking of nightmares," he added, raising his voice as he stepped in closer, "your queen, wherever she is, will have her own demise to contend with, much less yours. Either she comes for you and she dies," said Voldemort in Draco's ear, "or she hides, and I find her, and she dies. What would you hate more, I wonder?"

The demon curled one slender finger and raised it to Draco's cheek, thoughtfully stroking him.

"Try not to suffer too sweetly while I'm away, princelet. I'd hate to miss a moment," murmured Lord Voldemort with a tendril of a laugh, and then he snapped his fingers, commanding the battalion of guards that led Draco forcefully away.

* * *

_**a/n: **__Running a bit late this evening, but some things: I posted a call for prompts on tumblr for my advent this year in December, so if there's a trope/pairing/AU you'd like me to address, saunter over there and let me know. A reminder that my new novella, LA PETITE MORT, will be released on Halloween. Find more on olivieblake dot com, should you so choose. Thank you once again for following along!_


	9. She Who Laughs Last

**Chapter 9: She Who Laughs Last**

By now you have abandoned your scone, your tea, and your pretenses, turning to your grandmother with a wide gaze that might be naïve, but you're less concerned with how you might appear than you were when you first sat down to the occasion. This is, after all, your grandmother; whatever else her flaws may be (and however numerous Mama says they are), it's not as if she'll tell the _Daily Prophet_ if your longing to hear the rest of the story is too keen. You're allowed some inadvisable childish fancies, even at the grave maturity of age nineteen.

Well, you ask, hoping for the first time in years that your grandmother still has something left to teach you, what happened to Lady Vengeance, in the end?

Your grandmother takes a long, contemplative sip, and then gazes briefly into nothing, half-smiling to herself.

"Oh, I haven't the slightest idea, petal," says your grandmother eventually, clearing her throat and giving you the strange, bewitching look of a woman who was once a girl, filled to the brim with vibrance and femineity and magic. "But I will gladly tell you what I know."

* * *

_**The Execution of King Draco I, 1726  
**__Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry  
One Month Before The Fall_

"What I still don't understand," Harry said, lifting his head miserably from the stone bench, "is how Voldemort even began t-"

"The wand," said Draco without opening his eyes.

"Yes, but how could he—"

"The _wand_, Potter."

"Right, but in terms of—"

"I do adore being trapped here with you," Draco said, with as much falsity as he had the energy to muster. "Have I mentioned that?"

"—I'm simply saying that given the usual constraints of magic—"

"The wand," said Draco for what he told himself would be the last time (though it probably wasn't), and sat up. "He is a demon in possession of an invulnerable wand, Potter. I should think any further questions can be relegated back to the same point: Voldemort has the Elder Wand."

He grimaced at the reminder and glanced around his cell, which was not even allotted the privilege of privacy or, as it were, a moment's peace. He picked up the small cup of water, the only one he was allowed for the day, and poured its contents onto the floor, slowly. After a moment, reflective pools collected between the stones, slicking over them to settle in the grout.

Maybe one of these days clever Hermione might find a way to wriggle through the cracks somehow. She had always been particularly talented with narrow escapes, although never quite _this_ narrow. Still, it was worth it to hope.

Possibly.

It had been some weeks now without seeing her, or possibly months, which was causing a deeply insufferable ache somewhere that Draco wanted to violently smother, perhaps as an act of mercy unto himself. He had learned rather quickly that a person with enough fortitude could adapt to nearly anything—demonic possession; demonic un-possession; the daily implication that he may or may not die; forced confinement with a person he loathed almost as much as the silence when said person of loathing was absent—but still, breathing would be easier with one or two alterations. Say, for example, cutting out his heart and hurling it somewhere it could cause him less damage, like a royal dinner plate, served upon goblin silver for his dazzling bride to parse through her glorious teeth.

Indelicate summation would suggest that Draco was currently on trial for his life, much as he hated to admit it. As was Harry, though as someone who had been presumed dead for over a year, it was hardly the same thing. Until quite recently, Draco had believed himself not only incapable of death, but troublingly so, like an achievement he'd never quite reach. How many times had he wished for an end of some sort, only to consider it beyond impossibility? Somehow, all it took was one pearlescent little ring-wearing mutineer to make him think otherwise, and now he was left to shiver in the gloom of uncertainty, clinging to the foolish belief that one more day (and then another, and another, and perhaps just one more after that) might be enough to make a difference.

Only Harry was ever removed from the cell, though Draco could hardly envy him for that. Harry was dragged every few days before the Wizengamot, forced or bribed or compelled to testify to his and Draco's alleged plot to kill Dumbledore. A confession of high treason was necessary in order to put a king to death, as Draco had known, but he had once assumed it would be a matter expediently resolved, give or take some demonic corruption. To his surprise, nothing seemed to work, though over time he grew less concerned with why Harry couldn't be compelled to false confession and more with how long his dastardly court intended to keep him locked up without evidence. Were all the nobles under some sort of blackhearted spell? According to Harry, no, not visibly, which had deflated Draco so completely he was astounded he hadn't melted through the floors.

Not that it was surprising. His courtiers had what they wanted, demonic magic or no demonic magic. The Minister whom Draco had selfishly failed to be rid of was no longer of any concern, _plus_ their recalcitrant king was now behind bars, leaving them to fetter away what precious little remained of his treasury. The turning of the tide toward treachery was precisely what Lucius had always feared from their crumbling royal house; luckily Draco, unlike his ambitious father, was in no position to make disastrously ill-advised deals to save it.

Over the last weeks or months, or possibly years or eons, Draco's world had dimmed to only what Harry reported back to him, though what little Harry saw between the inquisition chambers and their rotting cell left much to their collective imagination. At first, Harry's reports were that Theo was clearly forced to be the demon's right hand, sitting pale-faced and silent at every trial, but then he had disappeared without explanation. One by one, Harry told Draco, the nobles had gone missing. Crabbe was one of the first, then Goyle. They were eventually replaced by their sons, Harry said, but that was hardly comforting. Then Theo's father was gone, and Theo never returned, at which point Harry grew anxious.

"Young Theodore is dead," said Lord Voldemort to Harry, leaving him to bring the news hollowly back to Draco, who had no method of confirming whether anything he was told was true. Whether to believe Theo's demise or not had been the obvious unasked question for weeks, until finally Draco could stand no more of the wondering.

"Voldemort is a demon," he said flatly one night, knowing Harry was only pretending to sleep. "He lied to me constantly. He could be lying to you now."

There was a long, unbroken silence.

"None of the courtiers who were present denied it," came Harry's low reply.

Draco, who knew well enough the importance of keeping destructive thoughts at bay, shoved the possibility of Theo's death firmly aside. "Voldemort wants you to believe Theo is dead so you'll give him the answer he wants," Draco reminded Harry, certain of that much, at least. "He needs us both to wish we were dead." If they gave up on life, after all, maybe they'd eventually give up their hobby of protesting innocence. "He wants you to think you're alone," Draco murmured, and remembered that he had once said as much, and not particularly long ago.

Thinking of Hermione was dismal, but inevitable. When it came to his mislaid queen, Draco received no news, nor even echoes of news, like her name being mentioned aloud, whispered in the corridors by the guards to puncture his existence through rumor. Was she dead? Better to hear no news than bad news if that was the case, Draco thought to himself, hardly in envy of the mind game his demon had set against Harry. The only reason Draco and Harry were housed in the same cell was surely to make him wonder—to make him question what existed outside the bars of his cage—rather than allowing him to live in the security of his delusion, floating around in the belief that maybe, just maybe, diligent Hermione was, in fact, perfectly fine.

At least if she stayed away, then she could not be used against him, nor he against her. She would be safe if she stayed gone, and he could satisfy himself with that. (Still, at night he wandered alone in a castle of his own mind's making, hoping he would find her within its walls.)

"The wand," Harry murmured to himself again, sighing to interrupt Draco's latest bout of melancholy. "Can it really do so much?"

"For a demon? Yes, I imagine so," said Draco absently, still staring at the rivulet of reflection he had left on the sodden stone floor. "If a demon can make indomitable magic without a wand," he sighed, snapping his fingers to watch the sad little flame of his former magic flicker and fade, "then I suppose it's no wonder this particular demon can do whatever it likes with this particular wand."

Harry, who was so thin now he looked just shy of haunted, turned his head to look at Draco, eyeing him across the span of their narrow cell.

"For what it's worth, I suppose I misjudged you," said Harry tentatively.

"It's worth very little, thanks," replied Draco, which Harry chose to ignore.

"We all knew what Voldemort would do if he ever gained access to the wand," Harry murmured, "but only you risked everything to hide it, didn't you? Your entire life was spent preventing Voldemort from taking control," he sighed, "and now—"

There was a loud sound from the corridor, a key in a latch, and then a door swung open, revealing the sound of heeled slippers or boots; a nobleman, perhaps. Perhaps even the rare appearance of Lord Voldemort himself, just to taunt one or both of them. Just to jab them with discomfort; a pinprick of pain, like a jolt to the ribs.

Or perhaps a blade to the chest.

"Hello, my darling husband," said Queen Hermione, dressed from head to toe in furs and silks and velvet, her curls smoothed elegantly back. "I thought it high time we have a little chat."

* * *

You gasp aloud, which is certainly a silly thing to do, but it seems quite clear you've missed some pertinent information. True, it's possible Lady Vengeance might have felt she must do everything in her power to survive, even if it meant betrayal, but would she really have gone so far?

"Well, I thought I'd skip ahead a little," clarifies your grandmother, behaving (incorrectly!) as if she has not made a crucial oversight in abandoning months of detail. "You wanted to know the end of her story, didn't you?"

Yes, you did—you _do_—but still, there are clearly pieces missing! You are nearly frantic in your dismay, which troubles you. You hate to admit it, even to yourself, but you do feel some desperate compulsion to see Lady Vengeance and her prince together again. Apparently you still cling to some desire to see love win, even if you've left most fairytale conceptions behind.

"I only hoped to spare you the drudgery of their time apart, petal, but if you're sure," says your grandmother with a smile, fingering the handle of her mug. "Remember when Lord Voldemort first led Prince Draco away?"

* * *

Hermione waited on the other side of her chambers, holding her breath as she heard Draco's footsteps fall stiffly away from the door, leaving her to freeze in panic.

"Now," said the demon's voice, "as for the queen—how has she managed her disappearances?"

Hermione blinked, holding a hand to her mouth to keep herself from gasping as she recognized the voice in response.

"Why should I tell you?"

"Well, my dear, I'll gladly kill you if you don't," said the demon cheerfully, "but surely you're an ambitious girl, clever enough. You understand your position, don't you?" There was a pause, and then, "You still require an advantageous match, and shortly, I will have the highest advantage of any man at court. Within hours I will have access to the monarchy's treasury; I will have the favor of every noble, and appointment as Minister once the nonsense of mourning Dumbledore's death has passed. You have quite an admirable bloodline, you know," he mused, voice slippery with flattery. "Why waste it?"

"So if I tell you where the Queen disappears to," said Pansy neutrally, "you'd offer me all of that in return?"

"Certainly. I'll make you wealthy beyond your wildest dreams, Lady Pansy. I'll offer you power beyond your most desirous fantasies." There was the sound of a heel stepping closer, and a rustle of skirts. "And I will give you," murmured Draco's demon, "the satisfaction you so desperately crave."

"And if I do not?"

Hermione slipped her shoes from her feet and set them aside, backing away from the door as quietly as possible.

"Death, sweetheart, death," said Lord Voldemort. "Shall I demonstrate?"

There was a thud against the floor, and Hermione jumped, wincing.

"Well," remarked Pansy after a moment, in precisely Pansy's usual dry, toneless voice, "you already know she has the stone, don't you? It's really quite simple."

"Go on," murmured Lord Voldemort.

Hermione dug her nails into her palm, retreating another step.

"She uses the stone to open a portal to a parallel realm, and—"

With that, Hermione turned on her heel and sprinted for the mirror in her vanity as fast as her steps could take her.

Once Hermione had fled safely into the other world—the door to her dressing chamber opening in her wake just as she secured the vanity's portal behind her—she began to pace through the halls of the mirror-palace, wondering what she should do next. True, Lord Voldemort couldn't get inside without the ring (or could he, with the wand?) but there were other concerns to be had. What if Lord Voldemort, knowing the details of her escape, proceeded to destroy all the mirrors in the palace?

What if he, via Pansy, found a way to trap her there somehow?

The more Hermione entertained the contortions of her thoughts, the worse and more toxic they became, sickening her to the point of madness. How would she get to Draco, and even if she managed it, what could she possibly attempt to do from there? She thought of him forced in a cell, left to rot simply because he had taken the lead and crossed into her chamber first, without her. She couldn't abandon him there, wherever he was, but what would it help falling into Voldemort's hands? Either she was a pawn for a demon or she was nothing, non-existent, struggling pointlessly to stay alive.

She turned, at first, to books, as was her way. She flipped through them pointlessly as light faded and then returned, struggling through hours of delirious starvation to think what could be done. What sort of power did a demon have when it possessed an invulnerable wand; a body of its own; some unstoppable force belonging to the universe itself…? She was halfway to tearing maniacally at her hair when the door burst open behind her.

_The door opened_. Someone else was _here_, invading her only safe place, and she braced herself for death or disaster, letting the book fall from her hand atop a pile of countless others.

"My goodness," said Daphne, dusting off her powder blue gown and glancing around with a frown. "It took absolutely ages to find you. Do you have any idea how many mirrors are in this palace? And they say women are prisoners of vanity," she scoffed, peering at the pile of academia Hermione stood beside, in addition to the numerous panes of shattered glass.

(Ah, yes, part of the mania had been breaking all the mirrors inside Draco's private chamber and barricading herself in his bedroom. Just in case.)

"What," began Daphne, and paused. "Why—"

"Pansy," said Hermione dully, sounding a bit crazed, even to herself. "She told him, she told Voldemort—"

"Oh, no, no," Daphne said, rushing forward to take hold of Hermione's hand, leading her carefully over the rubble and through the door of Draco's bedroom, which she could see had been delicately blasted aside. "No, Pansy probably told the demon some sort of lie," Daphne said soothingly. "A diversion, don't you see? It's really only thanks to her I was able to get away to begin with," she added with a sigh, looking chagrined. "When that Lord Voldemort arrived in your chambers she shoved me out of sight and told me to run, and—"

"Run," Hermione echoed, and then blinked, registering quite another fact of significance. "But Daphne," she realized with a start, "how on earth did you manage to find me without the stone?"

She twisted the ring on her finger, which had become a very nervous tick indeed; a habit of security, if only to remind herself that so long as she still had it, all was not quite lost.

"Well, I apparated as far as I could think to get with the first place that came to mind, which oddly enough was Hogsmeade," said Daphne, tucking Hermione's hand in the loop of her arm and plucking a broom from where she must have deposited it outside Draco's mirror-chamber. "But then I realized that your first night of marriage must have been the first time you realized you could disappear," she remarked, increasing in palpable excitement as she explained, "so I went to Hogwarts to see my sister—"

"Lady Astoria?" asked Hermione blankly.

"—yes, Astoria—and I asked her if there have ever been… rumors of any sort. You know, stories about people disappearing, or strange portals? She didn't know, she hardly pays attention to anything, but then the very rude ghost—"

"Peeves," Hermione sighed.

"—yes, Peeves, he dumped a pail of water on my head and then told me about—"

"The door," Hermione supplied, blinking. "The door on the seventh floor."

"Yes!" said Daphne excitedly, "so I nicked a broom, of course—"

(Of course.)

"—you know, given the lack of apparition in this world—and anyway," she exhaled, "it took ages, I admit; I paced back and forth in front of the wall for what must have been thirty times or so, but then—"

"The lack of apparition," said Hermione, the idea rocketing through her mind like a clap of thunder. "We can't apparate in here!"

"I… well, no," said Daphne, faltering a bit, as if she had expected Hermione to say something much more revolutionary than simply a previously established detail in regards to their mirror-realm occupation. "But anyway, I thought perhaps we'd hatch some sort of plan to reach the others, and then—"

"We can't apparate inside this realm because we _never left Hogwarts_," Hermione clarified, finally piecing it together and wondering why she'd never come to that conclusion before. "Don't you see? The magic inside this realm is precisely the same as the magic inside the castle, and if you could find me by passing through that door—" Hermione felt the old rush of a theory resolving itself, settling satisfactorily into place. "We were never in another world to begin with. We've been inside Hogwarts the entire time!"

"Well—" Daphne blinked, pausing to consider it. "I suppose that could be true," she confirmed eventually. "Though, does that help?"

After a moment's swell of calculation, Hermione sagged slightly.

"I suppose not," she admitted, grumbling.

"Oh, don't get me wrong, it's quite an impressive thing," remarked Daphne kindly. "The castle creating a parallel realm within its own sentience is certainly remarkable, but—"

"But not useful," Hermione grimly agreed. "At least, not when it comes to saving Draco from whatever Lord Voldemort has in mind."

Daphne nodded. "All I know is he has Theo," she said with a twinge of concern, "and Pansy, of course, for as long as she can keep him from invading her mind—"

If there was anyone close to impenetrable, Hermione figured it was Pansy. "And Harry?"

"He's been arrested, but that's all I know. Voldemort's pinning Dumbledore's death on him, or trying to."

"And the goal…?"

"If I had to guess? Execution," Daphne said with a wince, "or abdication, though given the demon's proclivities, I can't imagine it'll ever let Draco out of his cage."

"So our only hope is that the Ministry won't give Voldemort power," Hermione said apprehensively, "or that the courtiers won't go along with his plot?"

They exchanged a grimace, knowing both options were not only likely to happen, but probably bound to.

"Perhaps we should come up with something a bit more proactive than hope," Daphne suggested. "I came through Hogwarts to find you; perhaps we should go back there until we have some idea what to do in the palace. After all," she said, "I doubt the demon can break so easily into Hogwarts, can it?"

It occurred to Hermione in that precise moment just how glad she was to have Daphne there.

"I can't believe you did all that to find me," she commented, and Daphne gave a tired smile.

"We're friends, Hermione. And anyway," she said, dropping her gaze, "what Pansy did was far braver."

Arguable, Hermione thought, but still, it was said with wistfulness, and perhaps a touch of remorse. "I thought you hated each other," Hermione remarked, observing with a sidelong glance as Daphne's lips parted, and then hesitantly fell shut.

"Oh. Yes, well." Daphne's cheeks flushed pink. "I suppose it's hard to hate someone you've known for your entire lifetime, even if it's a bit distantly. Someone who knows you, truly, the way no one else ever will, and the way no one else could ever understand, because she _is_ you, in a way. Because she sees beyond the face you show the world, and she wears a mask herself, so when she removes hers and you remove yours, she gives you permission to… to breathe, I suppose. To be unbeautiful and indelicate sometimes, and to exist as… something. As someone. To be _someone_," Daphne sighed, "and a person with thoughts and feelings, instead of just the prettiest dress, or the right hair, or the proper manners. To be more than your father's ambitions, and to be wanted for precisely what you are, even if it's a secret; even if it must always be a secret and nothing more because no one will ever understand, and anyway, you both have expectations, and you both have shoes to fill, but sometimes in the quiet moments; in the stolen ones; you find yourself wanting—you find yourself _needing_—"

She swallowed, and it occurred to Hermione that perhaps Daphne's previous indiscretions with Pansy had not been arguments at all. Strange how everything Hermione had previously thought could be so easily rearranged, shifting into new and different shapes of understanding.

"We'll save her," Hermione said, sliding a hand down to Daphne's and squeezing it once, steady as a pulse. "We'll save them both."

But Daphne's eyes, when they met hers, were filled with a certainty Hermione had never seen before.

"No, Your Majesty," said Daphne. "We're going to save them all."

* * *

"As it turns out," your grandmother says, venturing unhelpfully into trivial details and therefore derailing the entire story, "the broom that Lady Vengeance's handmaiden stole from the castle actually belonged to—"

You fidget in your chair, impatient, and your grandmother sighs.

"You said you wanted details," she remarks, as if she doesn't know perfectly well what you meant. "I suppose you don't care to hear about the broom, then?"

The idea that you could concern yourself with anything but how Lady Vengeance winds up appearing in Prince Draco's cell is so abominable you can hardly think where to start.

"As you wish, petal," says your grandmother stiffly, though you're quite sure she's secretly pleased to have your rapt attention at last. "Then I suppose I'll skip ahead."

* * *

"No witty epithets, my king?" prompted Draco's malignant queen, whom he was not above admitting looked quite fearsome indeed. Beneath the fur trim of her uncharacteristically lavish robes, he could see the crackling of lightning, or perhaps he merely imagined it trailing in her wake, sparking incandescently underfoot. "No diminutives, no pet names?"

It had always suited her, power. He could sense it on her now. Whether it was magical or otherwise seemed of extreme and pressing interest, as it would very likely determine what was to become of him.

"You can't seriously think any of these have been evidence of _wit_," scoffed Draco, greeting her the only way he knew how. "When I'm being witty, my transcendent relic, you'll know it."

It was a ruthless pleasure to see her; his relief at the sight of her face was utterly carnivorous. So it still happened, then. She could still surprise him, subjecting him anew to the anguish and the sweetness of his ever-impending doom. The prospect of her betrayal was cruelly, exquisitely enticing. Would he die at her hands now, or live at them? His entire fate rested in her malevolent little fingers, glinting with the ring he had given her. Whether she was demonic in her own right remained to be seen.

"What do you want from me now, my everlasting stargaze?" Draco asked, stepping towards her. "Will it be my kingdom, sweetheart? Or my wealth?"

Behind Draco, he could feel Harry stiffen, the motion pairing spectacularly with vindictive Hermione's clever smile.

"Oh, Draco," she said softly, fingers brushing the bars of his cage with a lurid, arousing tenderness. "You know the only thing I've ever wanted is your death."

* * *

Wait, stop, but she can't possibly—! This is… ! She can't just—!

(Words fail you, clearly.)

"Well, you told me to hurry it along, petal," remarks your grandmother, and because words continue their disservice, you offer her an unrepentant scowl. "Oh, fine," she says absently, with vicious and unforgivable pretense. "Let's see, when did we see Lady Vengeance last?"

* * *

Hermione and Daphne stumbled out of the door on the seventh floor to find they had an audience.

"That," said Ginny, pointing to the broom in Daphne's hand, "is mine."

("I know, petal, I know," says your grandmother, "but it's relevant, I assure you.")

Hermione thought it was worth Lady Ginevra's notice that they had just emerged from a door that was usually a wall, or perhaps that Hermione herself had been the person to emerge from it (and it wasn't exactly _not_ significant that she happened to be Queen of Magic, for whatever that was worth) but instead, Ginny launched herself forward and snatched the broom from Daphne's hand, rounding on what Hermione realized was Lady Astoria, who was looking rather chagrined.

"I told you that's where my broom was," said Ginny fiercely, adding over her shoulder, "I'm very good at locator charms. And hello, Hermione," she said with a distracted sort of grump. "You know I've always encouraged you to fly, but I'd appreciate it if you procured your own brooms from here on, thanks."

"Well," Astoria began, appearing to have grand ambitions to explain herself, but then she sighed in defeat, turning to her sister. "I know you said not to tell anyone where you'd gone, but honestly—_you_ try being rid of her." She glared at Ginny before turning to Hermione, dropping into a low curtsey. "Your Majesty," she said sweetly. "I do hope you're well."

"Yes, hello, Lady Astoria, thank you—does anyone else know you're here?" asked Hermione, concerned now as she glanced around the castle. Typically there was never anyone to be found on the seventh floor, but all this was rather a long way off from typical. "We're going to need somewhere to…"

She hesitated, exchanging a glance with Daphne.

"To hide," she said after a moment, adding with a wince, "unfortunately."

"Do you have any recent news?" Daphne asked Astoria. Beside them, Ginny was still checking her broom for damage, though she looked up at the prospect of having something secretive to discuss. "I don't suppose Papa's answering his owls, is he?"

"Actually," Astoria said, souring a bit, "I rather think he couldn't _wait _to tell me what I was missing at court. I've got it in my rooms," she said, and beckoned them after her, peering down the staircase before summoning them on ahead.

It became rapidly apparent that whatever money couldn't buy, it _could_ provide a splendidly palatial hideaway. Astoria ushered Hermione and Daphne into her suite of rooms below the lake, hesitating once before grudgingly agreeing to allow Ginny inside.

"I suppose we'll have to swear you to secrecy now," said Astoria, adding with stupendous haughtiness, "even if you don't actually attend this school."

"Shall I tell McGonagall you're here, Hermione?" asked Ginny loudly, flouncing down beside her on Astoria's emerald bedding. "I imagine you'll want to see her," Ginny added, giving Astoria a look as if she were the real intruder, and Hermione sighed.

"I think it's best if she doesn't know where I am," she admitted with a large heaping of remorse, wishing that were not the best decision she could come to. "Voldemort already knows she can be weaponized against me, so I'd rather he didn't come looking. And you ought to stay out of sight, too," she added to Ginny, who preened with obvious pleasure at being important enough to hide. "Do you know where your brother is?"

"I presume you mean Ron, who just turned up after nearly a year," said Ginny with a roll of her eyes. "Totally oblivious, that one—"

"Here's the letter from Papa," Astoria announced, handing it ceremoniously to Daphne. "He says he's one of the first courtiers to be selected for Lord Voldemort's inquisition court."

"Inquisition court?" echoed Hermione, frowning.

"Oh yes," said Astoria, looking prettily stern. "They've gathered a council of courtiers and everything. Already the whole kingdom believes King Draco had Harry Potter kill Minister Dumbledore," she said, adding with a little tut of disapproval, "as if anyone with the Potter name and fortune would ever do anything so heinous!"

"I heard he's got a hippogriff tattooed on his chest," remarked Ginny, and Astoria's eyes widened with dismay.

"He doesn't," Hermione said before amending hastily, "or at least I don't think he does—but anyway, never mind," she determined, horrified she'd already wasted a second's thought considering whether she had seen Harry shirtless instead of focusing on the problem at hand. "The point is, we need to be sure the kingdom's not falling into total disrepair, what with Draco imprisoned and a demon running the Ministry—"

"What?" asked Astoria and Ginny, alarmed and incredulous respectively.

"What if," Daphne said, sparing Hermione from having to explain, "our best interest isn't to protect the monarchy, but to let Voldemort destroy it? Dumbledore was popular with the people and loathed by the courtiers, but surely Lord Voldemort will be the opposite," she said, as Hermione blinked, finding that rather accurate. "Without a king, people will turn on the Ministry, and therefore the Minister."

"Are you suggesting… chaos?" asked Hermione, rising to her feet to begin her customary think-pacing. "I suppose even a demon can't handle a full-scale rebellion."

"Yes, and right now, Voldemort has the courtiers on his side," said Daphne, "but you remember what things were like when Neville and Harry disappeared. Everyone whispered about the monarchy being at fault, but with Draco imprisoned and you missing—"

"They'll find someone new to blame." Hermione quickened her pace, keeping up with her racing thoughts. "But what should we do, incite people to mutiny? That takes money, leadership, outreach—and we'd need _everyone_ to turn on Voldemort, including the nobles. We certainly can't lure people into an attack they wouldn't survive," Hermione said with a grimace. "I don't know how he'd fend against an entire mob, but anyone who tried to come up against Lord Voldemort and the Elder Wand alone would surely be killed."

By that point, Astoria and Ginny both looked so absorbed they wouldn't dare interrupt, and Daphne, who was contemplating in silence, glanced up with a sense of determination.

"We'll pick off his followers," she said. "One by one. Strip him of support."

Astoria's eyes widened, distressed. Ginny's smile broadened, delighted. A sweet irony, Hermione thought, remembering what Draco had said: _most demonic things intend, in general, to make you feel you are alone._

She may not have been a demon, but she had rage enough to make her mean.

"And if he kills Draco before then," Hermione prompted, "or gets Harry to confess?"

"I don't know," Daphne said, which was true enough. None of them could possibly know the future. "But in the meantime, how difficult can it be? People were ready to revolt when they thought Harry and Neville were kidnapped and killed. What if it starts happening to the high-ranking courtiers?"

Daphne turned to her pretty sister, who blinked in a lovely portrait of reluctant agreement, and then to Ginny, whose fingers curled with breathless excitement around the handle of her broom.

"Well," said Hermione, resigning herself to the inevitable. "I suppose we ought to get to it, then."

* * *

Your grandmother pauses, reaching for the sugar, and you all but slap her hand away.

"My goodness, petal," your grandmother says, one hand fluttering gravely to her chest. "Is it not enough to tell you a rebellion was had?"

Presumably, she can see on your face what you think of that preposterous question.

"Oh, very well," she says in her lofty way, at which point you realize there wasn't any sugar in the bowl to begin with.

* * *

They 'killed' Theo first, of course. They needed him, for one thing. For another, it was easiest to convince him to lay still while politely asking the palace elves to shriek in terror, eventually swapping his unconscious body with a transfigured and startlingly lifelike doll (Astoria, as Hermione had always observed from afar, was troublingly good with embroidery charms; so much so that even a gollum could be constructed to astounding accuracy in a matter of spare hours).

"Nothing can make Potter confess," Theo said when Daphne rushed him into Astoria's rooms at Hogwarts, hardly waiting for an invitation to speak and not even questioning the rose-colored flounces on the blanket thrown over his shoulders. "The demon's furious about it," he told Hermione, "but not even the wand can do it."

That was a relief, although not fully. Not if the demon sorted out another way. "You're certain there's no potion Voldemort can slip him?" Hermione asked, thinking rapidly through her alchemy studies to recall if one existed, but Theo shook his head.

"Can't very well administer Veritaserum, can he?" Theo prompted bitterly, his eyes a little unfocused, as if they were actively trying to forget the things he'd seen. "If he did, then Harry would only tell the truth, which is exactly what Voldemort is trying to avoid."

"So what happens when they call him into the chambers for questioning?" asked Daphne.

"Nothing," said Theo, scraping a hand over his hollowed cheeks. "Potter sits in total silence. He doesn't answer at all."

Hermione thought of Harry, of his easy smile and the one time she had ever seen it fall. For Theo, she suspected Harry could manage to remain silent for the rest of time.

"Would Voldemort try to kill Draco without evidence?" she asked worriedly, chewing her lip.

"You'd think he would, wouldn't he? But he doesn't." Theo shivered. "He seems to have focused all his energy on Pansy, actually."

Daphne's face drained momentarily of color, though she set about briskly wandering the room, fetching them a new pot of tea.

"Is the demon," Hermione began, and hesitated. "Is he angry about me, or…?"

Theo gave her a darkened grimace. "No," he said. "In fact he seems to find your absence amusing. I think he believes you'll come to him."

The idea that she would ever do something so stupid was unnerving. It was such an idiotic conclusion that it could only have come from something she didn't yet know, and the prospect of _that_ was more terrifying than anything.

The next courtier they targeted had to have no connection to them; it would have to be someone who was not so obviously a friend to Draco or Hermione, so they selected the elder Lord Crabbe. He had been one of the nobles inclined to overindulge, and as a result, it had taken not only Ginny and Astoria, but also Ron (at Ginny's insistence) to levitate him in.

"Well, that's done," said Ginny, permitting Crabbe's heft to fall bulkily onto Astoria's expensive woven rug, thudding face-first. "What shall we do with him? Oh and Ron, that's Astoria, if you haven't sorted it out by now," she added, waving a hand disinterestedly at the young noblewoman in question, who gave Ron a befuddled glance.

"Don't I know you from somewhere?" she asked.

"I passed you the butter once, I believe," said Ron faintly. Astoria would not have committed anything about him to memory, Hermione suspected, outside of the rumpled waistcoats belonging to his brothers before him, but he had clearly taken notice of her. More than once, by the looks of it.

"Oh yes, right. Well, excellent then," said Astoria, before transitioning with her usual hauteur to, "I will not have this disgusting oaf of a man living on my rug, thank you. Some other idea will have to be had, approximately now."

"Yes," Daphne murmured, fidgeting. "We have to reach Pansy soon."

"There's the mirror-world," suggested Theo. "Can't we put them there, temporarily? They won't be able to apparate anywhere else."

"Yes, but we might also _lose_ them in there," said Hermione. "Someone will have to keep an eye on them."

"I'll do it," said Ron, surprising them all with his lack of hesitation, and Astoria looked up, brows twitching slightly.

"Will you?" she asked, and he blinked at her.

"Well, it's got to be done, hasn't it?" he asked. "And the rest of you are much more useful here. You especially," he added, swallowing a little as he quickly averted his gaze from Astoria's, referencing the Crabbe-gollum they'd left in the courtier's place. "Can't do much worth a damn with charms, personally."

Hermione watched something dawn across Astoria's face, turning it briefly golden.

"Yes, well, I suppose it's always best to have some signature enchantments in a lady's arsenal," she said loftily, before accidentally colliding with her wardrobe door and brusquely shoving past it.

Pansy's rescue, for which Hermione was not present, had to be told to her by Daphne in retrospect. It consisted, as far as Hermione could tell, of the following conversation:

"No," said Pansy, "this is all very foolish and unnecessary of you, and I won't go."

(What followed from there was a veritable spew of frustrated obscenities. Daphne even claimed a heavenly chorus joined her in the glory of her rage, followed by the opulent tones of a feral brass ensemble. Hermione did not doubt it.)

"He keeps saying something about my bloodline," Pansy said to Daphne. "Always about my blood. I think it means something, but I can't sort out what."

Eventually Daphne returned empty-handed, her hair loose around her shoulders, eyes red.

"She won't come," said Daphne hoarsely, "but never mind, it's for the best."

Then she immediately sat down and made a list of further victims, barking at Astoria to begin stitching another set of courtier-dolls.

Only once did Hermione see Pansy over the months they plotted and executed their little abductions. In the middle of the night one night, Hermione woke to Pansy standing over her and leapt upright, shoving Theo awake from where he slumbered in a nearby chair over a book of wandlore principles and properties.

"Nott's taken care of," said Pansy flatly.

"Oh, alright then," said Hermione, clearing her throat. Pansy notoriously hated fuss, and given that she was currently playing bait for a demon, Hermione didn't wish to make any; just as a personal favor to her. "So, erm, where is he?" Hermione asked, glancing around the room. "Do you need help with the, ah. The—"

"No," said Pansy.

She glanced at Theo, who sat up in wary silence.

"I never liked your father much," she remarked, and then turned back to Hermione. "By the way, you look like hell," she commented in a softened tone of affection, and then she whirled out of the room, disappearing.

(Until later, that is. But later stories are, as with all later things, for later.)

It was Ginny who mostly took the role of wrangling the mob, along with—to Hermione's great surprise—Neville, who could give a rousing speech when he worked himself up to the effort. With their help, Hogsmeade gradually became a hotspot for rebel activity. With the Greengrass daughters funneling the money for 'gowns and pretty whatnots' (their father's technical term for their monthly allowances) into town hall meetings across the kingdom and Ginny and Neville working the crowds, their efforts at upending the Ministry and its house of lords was becoming an unequivocal success. It wasn't the easiest thing; according to Ginny, people who had never been asked to think for themselves before occasionally struggled with the task of doing it. However, many agreed they didn't think it fair that courtiers in Wiltshire and lords in London dined plentifully while they starved, so there were always some fresh supporters to be picked up along the way.

This, of course, had one small setback, which marched personally into the chambers of Lady Astoria Greengrass after over nearly three months of mutineering.

"Lady Astoria, I must insist—"

But Professor McGonagall stopped, eyes widening, at the sight of Hermione, who had just been glancing over a genealogical map of sorts at Astoria's small desk, and at Theo, who was standing over her shoulder, hawkishly observing (as Hermione had told him countless times not to hawkishly observe).

McGonagall stared for a moment, face pale, and Hermione shot uncomfortably to her feet, utterly dismayed with herself.

"I'm so sorry," she said at once. "I understand the risk I've forced upon you by my being here, and the danger I've put the castle in. I only wanted t-"

"How can I help?" asked McGonagall stiffly, casting a speculative glance around the room. "You'll need someone to help you hide better, for one thing. Even Armando's begun to suspect something odd; all that activity on the seventh floor, plus the meetings in the village—"

She broke off, though, with a long, hungry glance at Hermione.

"Oh, my girl, I've missed you," McGonagall said, unexpectedly softening. "You silly thing, getting yourself into all this trouble. I hope it was everything you wanted."

Hermione opened her mouth to say of course it wasn't—it hardly even made the list of things she'd _wanted_, because a demon certainly wasn't what she'd had in mind for her life—but she realized that wasn't what McGonagall meant at all.

_You are something very special, my dear._

"You set me on a very strange path, Professor," said Hermione, and McGonagall's smile in response was an elder one, both altogether knowing and, somehow, secure in her un-knowing.

"That is all an old woman can ask," she said briskly, before clearing her throat. "Now. How exactly can I be of assistance?"

* * *

You interrupt, of course, because this is happening much too slowly. You may be young still, but even youth bears the curse of knowing time is running out. You practically itch from it; the compulsion to know more, to know everything.

To know, specifically, what Lady Vengeance was doing all that time. Your grandmother has touched sufficiently on the side characters by now, but Lady Vengeance remains a mystery. What did she do while Prince Draco wasted away in his cell?

"Patience, petal," says your grandmother. "Am I telling the story or not?"

* * *

The dreams had begun almost immediately after Draco was taken away.

At first it was almost nothing; glimpses of slitted red eyes, the shapes of them haunting Hermione from beneath the hood of a heavy cloak. The tendril of a claw scraping at her thoughts, or a smile, blood-red and blade-thin. Hermione was surprised to learn from Daphne and Astoria that Lord Voldemort was famously handsome, with blue eyes that sparkled like sapphires and hair so black it gleamed like the midnight sky.

For her, Voldemort remained the skeletal creature she'd seen once in Draco's mind, despite whatever body he'd given himself for the outside world. After a couple of weeks, he began to take shape in her mind, materializing fully in her thoughts.

"You're hiding from me, little witch," said Voldemort with a sigh, lounging in the Great Hall of the Hogwarts inside Hermione's mind. It was difficult sometimes to tell the real one from the false one, particularly in dreams; but it was a comfort, at least, to know the demon was likely not there in the flesh.

The skeletal version of him languored in the Headmaster's chair like a throne, scraping a claw along a brass goblet. "Have you missed me?" he asked, giving a curdling sort of laugh that left her shivering in distaste, bile of fear and loathing flooding her tongue. "You've improved immensely, you know. This," he said with a wave of his bony hand, "is the only room unlocked."

"How did you do it?" asked Hermione, because there was obviously no escape. She would only have to be certain that her defenses, as Draco had put it once, remained solid. "You have a body now," she mused, perching at one of the many tables in the hall. "Was it only the wand?"

"Oh, a few things here and there. The wand, mostly. A little blood of the enemy, flesh of the servant, bones of the father… Princelet's father, of course." He cast his gaze lazily elsewhere, perusing the hall with a sigh. "I loathe this castle. Even here it has an unpleasant stench."

"That'll be the sentience," Hermione said. "Are you bored, demon? Or did you just miss me?"

The demon smiled grimly, and disappeared.

Later, Hermione came more prepared. "Why haven't you killed him yet?" she asked.

"Killed who?" asked the demon, perhaps only to be difficult.

"My husband," she said, and Voldemort smiled thinly again.

"Interesting you call him that," he said. "Taking ownership. It's sweet, really."

She thought it best not to reveal much of anything. If the demon was truly inside her own mind, she wanted to keep all of her emotions at a distance, as Draco had once done.

"Of course I take ownership," she said. "He is mine, isn't he?"

Voldemort's skeletal smile flickered then, his slanted eyes glowing slightly redder.

"Yes," he said, "he is," and disappeared.

It occurred to Hermione that while the demon might never answer her questions satisfactorily, perhaps she could piece together answers if she learned to read him.

"Why did you possess Theo?" she asked.

"Because I liked his anger," said Voldemort. "A delicacy, rage. Very unique, sort of savory."

"Did you kill him?" Hermione asked.

"Who?" asked the demon, being demonic.

"Theo," Hermione said, as Voldemort heaved a sigh.

"If young Theodore has enemies, that's on him," he said. "I have always been perfectly friendly."

"But it can't have been easy to possess someone who wasn't Draco," she remarked, as clinically as possible. "Or else why not jump bodies more often?"

"There was never a body more useful to me than the princelet's," replied Voldemort, as if she had asked a thoroughly stupid question. "Once he became king, what point was there to doing it? Until, of course, the element of surprise," he said, looking delighted with himself. "I do love a plot twist."

"Well yes, maybe that made sense once Draco became king, but he wasn't always. After all, you can't possibly mean to tell me you enjoyed living in a mortal toddler," Hermione prompted doubtfully. "He told me himself you didn't care much for the dance lessons."

"I was different then," said Voldemort diffidently. "The stronger the princelet became, the stronger I became. You understand, don't you, the nature of our relationship?"

"Yes," said Hermione. When the host gained power, so did the thing that fed on him. "You're a parasite."

Voldemort's slitted eyes danced with amusement. "Not anymore," he said. "Not with the wand. And I'll have the stone from you soon, little witch, and when I do—"

"But the wand doesn't do everything you thought it would," interrupted Hermione, "does it? So perhaps it's all just a myth."

Immediately, Voldemort's smile flickered away, becoming a cavern of darkness.

"I'm tired of you now," he said, and disappeared.

The next time the demon returned, she was waiting.

"I did a bit of research," she said, and Voldemort smiled his demonic smile: all teeth. "Theo and Draco are cousins, did you know that? Similar bloodlines. A bit distant," she admitted, "but enough that there are strands of Draco's blood in Theo. Interesting, isn't it?"

"I suppose," said the demon flippantly. "Is there a purpose to your research?"

"Well, I looked, and just as Draco and Theo are distantly related, Lady Pansy shares a bloodline with a great many of your courtiers," Hermione said. "I suppose I never considered before how many of the nobility are… _bound_," she determined after a flicker of tension from the demon, "by blood. Have you?"

Abruptly, Voldemort left his usual Headmaster's throne to appear at her side, sending a shiver up her spine with the enveloping chill of his presence.

"You'll come to me," he whispered to her. "I know you will. You'll realize there is no other way."

She held her breath. "No other way to what?"

But he was gone again, leaving her to wake in frustration.

On another visit, there was only time for one thing.

"Why are all your courtiers dying?" asked Hermione innocently.

The demon snarled and was gone.

The next time he appeared, she was sitting in his chair. He glared at her.

"You bound me to Draco's bloodline," she said, and the moment the demon's eyes glowed red, she knew she'd found the piece she really needed. "Actually, let's revisit history, shall we? Better if we tell the whole story."

She slumped down in the chair, spreading out wide; taking up space, as a king would do. Or a demon king. Or, in this case, a queen, and one who found herself with rather a crucial card to play.

"Lucius," Hermione said, "bound you to the Malfoy bloodline. He summoned you, he agreed to your terms, and so you were given possession of Draco at birth—but you're a parasite," she reminded him. "You could find enough of Draco's blood to possess Theo for a short while, but not for long. Not forever." She glanced up at him, waiting to see if he would hazard a reaction. "If you hadn't procured the wand, you would have had to crawl back to Draco eventually, wouldn't you? And now, even if you have your own body, Draco keeps you in this world. Draco," she concluded, "is still your host."

"Then why put him on trial for his life, hm?" prompted Voldemort nastily. "Riddle me that, little witch."

"Because of me," said Hermione. "Because in forcing our marriage, you made him tie my bloodline equally to his, didn't you? For power," she said, and then amended, "For _my_ power. But it's mine, belonging only to me, just as this stone is mine, and will never be yours."

Voldemort curled his claws inwards, lashing them against his skeletal palms.

"And now you want to tie yourself to Pansy, to bind yourself to a new bloodline, so that you can kill Draco and be rid of him, and then you'll kill me, too. But you won't get Pansy," Hermione told him, rising to her feet. "She's gone. You'll never find her."

(Daphne had been the one to do that particular rescuing, and according to her, it went like this: "Pansy, if you don't take my hand and run with me right now, I swear, I _swear_, on everything that's ever lived—on you and your stubbornness both!—I will never, ever, _ever_ love you again!" That, according to Hermione, had been enough to do it, though a logical explanation had followed anyway. Just in case.)

The demon made a sound that even Hermione recognized as fury, though it amounted to what sounded like several languages at once, played backwards and through a chorus of inhuman wails.

"Since Draco and I are the only ones left with his full bloodline, you need to kill us both," said Hermione. "But you know if you kill Draco first, you'll never get to me. I can stay gone forever, Voldemort, and you know it."

"But only you can be rid of me," said Voldemort, taunting her with it. "You'll come for me, little witch, because you can't stand it, can you? You can't let me run the magic you love into the ground. I'll do it," he warned her, teeth flashing again. "Every day you stay gone, I will destroy something else. I'll start with books, of course," he assured her silkily. "All the magical tomes, the ancient runes, I'll destroy them. I'll burn down the libraries, the places your kind find holy. I'll come for the scholars, the Warlocks. I'll come for your truths, and then, when I've finished with that, I'll come for your innocents. I'll destroy them all, one by one, until y-"

"About that," said Hermione. "I think I'd like to end this now."

Voldemort blinked, but recovered quickly.

"I knew you would," he said. "You forget, little witch, I know you. I know your thoughts, I know your heart, and—"

"My conditions are this," she said simply. "I want to remain queen. You'll be Minister," she said, "as I can see no way around it. But if you will remain in your place, then so will I."

Voldemort's slitted eyes narrowed. "Why should I allow this?"

"Your courtiers are disappearing, aren't they?" she prompted, and the skeletal features beneath his cloak stiffened. "They're too afraid now, and too much fear can make humans behave… unpredictably. Volatilely." She waited until he showed signs of recognition. "I have more power than you think, Voldemort," said Hermione, watching the demon flinch at the sound of its name. "I took Pansy from you, didn't I? And I will continue to take from you, just as you threaten to take from me."

"I will kill your princelet," taunted Voldemort. "Your husband you find so dear, I will kill him with his own father's wand, and—"

"Fine," said Hermione, shrugging. "In fact, you ought to. A public execution, I think, to ensure a peaceful transfer of power. After all," she mused, unable to help a small smile, "I hear the Ministry is currently plagued by riots. In fact, I hear unrest is so rampant that a new Minister cannot even be chosen, can he?"

Voldemort's expression soured. "Humans are foolish, dull. They understand nothing."

"They do hate to be ruled," agreed Hermione. "And there have been many years now of something malignant infecting this kingdom. A toxicity," she said. "Something in the foundation's been corrupted, hasn't it? It can no longer be contained."

"So what do you want?" Voldemort demanded, flaring up with irritation. "You are much too soft to allow your husband's death. I know you have no instincts for killing."

"No, I don't, but if it's his life for the lives of my kingdom, so be it," said Hermione, shrugging. "You can't kill him without Harry Potter's confession, can you? So have mine instead." She leaned forward, resting her palms on the table between them. "I'll give you the testimony you need to put my husband to death," she murmured, coaxing Voldemort closer by the intimacy of her offering. "I'll tell your courtiers how he's played host to a demon. How he forced me into marriage. How he is unfit to be king, and how he spoke on multiple occasions of his desire for Dumbledore's death. All you have to do is leave me the kingdom that is rightfully mine."

Voldemort stared at her, searching for the traps he would not find.

("Why should he believe you?" asked Theo, helpless with worry.

"He may not believe me," said Hermione, "but even so, he cannot deny me.")

"I will kill him," Voldemort said slowly. "You will watch me do it. I will ensure you have no wand. Your hands will be bound. You will have no method of interfering."

"Fine," said Hermione. "Where will you do it?"

"The Ministry," said Voldemort.

"What, and let people believe the Ministry is corrupt? I warned you about riots," said Hermione.

"Fine, then the palace," said Voldemort listlessly, and Hermione arched a brow.

"_My_ palace, you mean? I think not," she said. "I'd rather no one else wind up with grand ideas about royal occupants losing their heads."

"Fine." Voldemort gave an impatient scowl, and finished his moment of calculation with, "Hogwarts, then."

"Are you sure?" asked Hermione. "You seem to loathe it here," she reminded him, gesturing with a glance around the room.

"It's done," snapped Voldemort. "You'll watch your husband die right here, little witch, in the castle you love so dearly, and if you do anything to interfere, I'll kill everyone inside it slowly, one by one, and make you watch. Are we clear?"

("How did it go?" asked Daphne nervously, sitting beside the bed.

"Brilliantly," said Hermione, breathless with the thrill of negotiation. "Better than I'd hoped.")

"Quite clear," said Hermione, sweeping the demon a low curtsey. "And I think I'll go visit my husband at first light to tell him the unfortunate news."

Then, with a blink, she awoke.

* * *

"Shall we return to the subject of Lady Vengeance's return to Prince Draco now," asks your grandmother in her snottiest tone, "or do you have further demands?"

You say nothing, though you implore her with a glance.

"Alright," says your grandmother. "Where were we, then?"

Lady Vengeance was dressed in full regalia as the Queen of Magic, you say loyally, and she came to her husband after months of painful solitude to tell him it was time to die.

"Oh yes," says your grandmother, "right you are, petal, so it was. It was a Wednesday in late summer, unseasonably hot and stifling, and it was also," she says with an ominous glint in her eye, "Prince Draco's day to die."

* * *

"This is quite an outfit," remarked Draco to his erstwhile bride, taking in another sweeping sight of her. "Did you put this on just for me, my temperate malady?"

"I did, actually," said fur-trimmed Hermione, looking pleasantly rose-colored with preening. "And also because it's a bit chilly in the execution chambers."

"Well, you are eminently practical, lilypad," offered Draco. "I always did admire that about you."

She gave him a crooked sort of smile.

"I've missed you," she said. "Though I'll miss you even more when you're dead, I think."

"Well, that's a relief," he replied, "as being alive is really more trouble than it's worth. Especially locked up with this one," he added, waving a hand to Harry, "though I imagine… what was the deal? His life for mine?"

"Oh, something like that," said placid Hermione. "I'd never kill Harry." She leaned over, waving at him with a single, amiable flutter of a gloved hand. "Hello, Harry."

"Hello," he replied faintly, as Hermione turned back to Draco.

"In any case, will you come quietly?" she implored him, expressing some acute degree of solemnity as she beckoned him through the bars. "Historically I prefer you to do it with my name on your lips, but right now it'll have to be a modicum of dignity, I'm afraid."

"Well, if you insist, my affable iris," said Draco. "Better inevitable death than the indignity of stone walls, I say. Better still," he added with a sweeping bow, "if you're the sinister view."

"Sweet of you," said Hermione, taking a step back and glancing into the shadows. "You know where to take him, don't you?" she called to the guards, to which they presumably expressed their confirmation. "Do be careful," sighed merciless Hermione, "I'd rather not see him scratched up unnecessarily. Such a pretty thing you've always been," she added to Draco, sounding positively wistful. "I'd like to remember you for your beauty."

"Likewise," he said, and she smiled.

The hours between his transfer to Hogwarts were nothing especially notable. He felt only a strange, floating sense of portent, waiting after months of nothing to see what this day of something would finally be. Would she kill him, truly? He found himself with that same thrilling sensation of being around her: enigmatic Hermione, his storm of a wife. He had never possessed her, never been possessed by her. Only shared in the lightning of her, in her thunder, for a year of his unremarkable life.

Voldemort was there, saying things, waving around his dead father's wand. Draco didn't care particularly, enjoying instead the smell of the castle's air, which was warmer than he'd expected. It was summer new, and everything was ferociously, putridly bright outside the stained glass windows. The sun shone hot around him as he was marched into the castle, bound by his demon's handsome chains. He wished his pallor were less ghastly, so that he would more resemble the portrait that hung in the castle's gallery: _Prince Draco_, it read, painted and enchanted shortly before the death of his father. There had been no time for a new one; perhaps he had not been king for long enough to even count.

Ironically, it was Voldemort who looked full of life, having stolen the finer details of Draco's appearance in addition to his seat at the head of the magical monarchy. Not that it mattered, really. Draco had never thought a king was much use at all, except to be a puppet to the nobles; the courtiers, who would hopefully have their own fates to contend with after he was gone.

A pity his kingdom would go down with a demon, but he had done what he could, hadn't he?

He was dragged to his knees, waiting. Across from him, Hermione was strapped immobile to her chair, gazing at him blankly.

"Read the crimes, please," said Lord Voldemort, stroking a pair of artful fingers around the shape of his silken smile. "And do it with some panache, if you will."

"His Royal Majesty Draco, King of Magic, is hereby found guilty of—"

Draco closed his eyes, and gradually, the room around him fell still.

"About time," sighed Hermione, who was standing in front of him now. She held out a hand and he, blinking, accepted, allowing her to pull him up. "It'll have to be quick, I'm afraid."

He smiled down at her, probably too-adoring. "Well, I didn't want to leap into your head too soon and chance being apprehended. Timing is crucial, as you know."

"So true," she said. Inside her mind, she wasn't wearing any ridiculous furs, thank god. She was in another plain riding dress, looking unapologetically herself.

"What's your plan, exactly?" he asked, but because it couldn't be helped, he added, "By the way, the clothes are terrible. You look absolutely ridiculous."

"Thank you," said Hermione. "I was in costume as a vindictive wife, I think."

"Were you? Not bad," said Draco. "I think Harry bought it."

"Well, he is very susceptible to trickery," said Hermione, the two of them nodding in tacit agreement. "Anyway, there will shortly be a revolt against the castle," she continued. "Took months to organize, so I hope you can forgive my delay. I'd hoped to be here sooner but it's quite a tricky business, starting a war."

"An entire revolt, really? How fascinating," said Draco approvingly.

"Yes, rather," agreed Hermione. "A lovely mob and everything."

"Marvelous. I do love a spectacle."

"Yes, I know. Unfortunately you will have to be killed first," said Hermione, as Draco frowned, tensing a bit. "Oh no, I just mean you have to sit there and let Voldemort kill you," she hurried to assure him. "Only there's a bit of a trick to it, of course."

"Well, get to it then," he said gruffly. "I haven't got all day, even if this list of crimes is as long-winded as I suspect it is—"

"Oh, yes, it is, deeply. I added a few extra crimes, just to buy time," said Hermione, adding offhandedly, "Sorry about testifying against you, by the way."

"Yes, it was very rude," said Draco, "but go on. The trick?"

"Right. So when he kills you, just refuse to die," said Hermione, who was actually quite mad, maybe. Possibly. "Just… well, that's it really. Simply say no, no thank you, and that'll be that. You'll have to be quite sincere, I'm afraid," she told him. "Also, there's no substantial evidence it'll work, and quite a few things will have to go precisely as predicted—"

"Oh good, very safe," said Draco.

"—but it _should_ work," she said. "I'm fairly certain of it."

"And by 'fairly,' you do mean… _quite_, don't you?" asked Draco.

"Oh, yes, rather," she said, and before he could point out that wasn't entirely enough of an assurance, she pulled him into her arms, securing them around his neck and smiling serenely up at him. "I do hope you have enough of a reason to come back to me," she said. "We have quite a lot ahead of us, you know. Magnificent things. The grandest of all possible things, in fact."

"That," he told her, "is quite a promise. You do realize I know grandeur intimately, don't you?"

"Oh yes, I know. And we'll have all of it, you and I." Her lips brushed his, softly. "The lovely ordinariness of being together," she said. "Massive, isn't it?"

He kissed her wordlessly, savoring the warmth of her until she fell away with the opening of his eyes, light pouring down to deliver him to temporary blindness.

"Well, I suppose this is goodbye, princelet," said Lord Voldemort, crouching before Draco as he blinked away visions of sunspots and her. "You were such a hospitable host, you know, until you weren't. I'll miss you, for what it's worth," he added with something of a sighing remorse. "No one else has quite your… flavor."

"Yes, it's all been an unceasing delight," said Draco.

Lord Voldemort smiled that rudely too-handsome smile, aiming Draco's father's wand. Elsewhere, Draco saw the women in the audience hiding their faces, men turning away. All but Hermione.

Vengeful Hermione, whose lips twisted up in a smile unseen.

"_Avada Kedavra_," said Lord Voldemort.

* * *

What a dreadful time for your grandmother to pause for a sip of tea.

You stare at her, disbelieving. What happened? Did he die? Surely he didn't die. Or did he? You can hardly stand the wait, and begin to press your grandmother intently for details, going so far as to remove the cup from her hand.

What happened?

"Well, it's a little bit of a mystery," says your grandmother, who seems to be sincere. "I suppose that in the lag before the green light—somewhere in that hasty pulse between happenings—Prince Draco had a precognition of sorts. A glimpse of the future."

This is known to happen, even to you. You acknowledge that most divination is bollocks, but still, there is portent in looming death. It is a particularly unexplainable magic.

But still, what did he see? What did he say?

"He said no," says your grandmother. "The wand offered him death, and he refused it."

For a moment, you picture him on his knees, staring down his own death, and saying without words: _No._

_No, you will not take me from her._

For a moment you are satisfied with what you imagine to be the prince's last thoughts, finding your version pleasing enough. Whatever that moment was—whatever future he dreamed up behind his eyes, true or false—it was for him alone, and you are willing to uphold the sanctity of his secrets. He has, after all, always shared them with a demon, and perhaps grudgingly, you have come to hope he has one to keep for himself.

Still, you are breathless when you ask her: And then?

"And then," says your grandmother, "all hell broke loose, of course."

* * *

The moment Draco asserted control over the wand, a number of things happened at once: firstly, he did not die. That was crucial, but also the most expected immediate result, if Hermione's research proved accurate. Less expected were the details of it happening; the killing curse being swallowed up in a belch of green light the moment it was cast was… a surprise, optically, albeit a blissful one. The shackles binding Draco in place, cast by Lord Voldemort and therefore by the Elder Wand, disappeared all at once, slurped inelegantly out of existence. Draco caught the wand, rising to his feet, and perhaps that was all well and good, but then the second half of Hermione's speculation (the truly questionable bit) kicked in.

The body of Lord Voldemort melted away—oozing, repulsively, down to the floor like a snake shedding its skin—and the courtiers around them began to scream and run, plunging through the crowds for the exits. The skeletal, spectral form that remained behind in Lord Voldemort's place let out an unearthly scream, and then dove, headfirst, into the nearest living host.

Hermione herself.

"Hello, Voldemort," she said to the demon in her mind, shuddering at the jolt of her own possession. In a blink, the chaos of the Great Hall was gone, leaving her to reunite with him inside the tranquil quiet of her mind's defenses. "You did say you wanted me, didn't you?"

The demon conjured a cloak over what remained of its skeletal form, draping the hood low until only the slitted red eyes were visible.

"The Elder Wand has right of conquest, remember?" said Hermione, not very kindly. "The wand was always rightfully his."

"_He_ was promised to me," said the demon furiously. "His father promised him to me!"

"Well, that's not how it works," said Hermione, rising to her feet. She was a scholar, really, underneath it all. Under the mask of queenery, she was a student who had wanted to be a teacher. She had not dreamt of being a bride, or a wife, and certainly not a demon's bride, nor a woman forcefully placed on a magical throne. She had begun all of this with the goal of being a professor, so she supposed that now, given what had to be done, she would teach.

"You did a lot with the wand, I'll give you that," said Hermione, beginning to make her way out of the Great Hall and being, in her opinion, quite generous with her acknowledgement. "Probably as much as anyone could have done with it, all things considered. But it would always obey Draco's wishes over yours," she explained, making her way to the staircase, taking the steps one at a time. "Hence why you were never able to make Harry confess to his detriment, nor use it to destroy him."

"I could kill him without a wand," remarked Voldemort, swooping next to her as she made her way up the second floor, and the third. "And I can use you to kill him, little witch. I can possess you as I once possessed him, and when he is dead and the wand is mine—"

"Oh true, very true," Hermione said contemplatively, traversing the fourth floor, and then the fifth. "That's certainly an option, only here's the thing." She rounded on him, producing a royal smile. "I don't think you would enjoy trying to possess me," she told him softly. "I'd make it quite unpleasant for you, Voldemort. Quite unpleasant indeed."

The red eyes flamed in disapproval. "You cannot kill me, little witch. I will never be gone from you, nor from Draco. It was Lucius who bound me to this world, to his own son, and from the moment you wed him, you could never be rid of me—"

"That's true," said Hermione, making her way to the landing of the seventh floor. "But I'm sorry to tell you, Lord Voldemort, that I will not belong to anyone. Least of all you."

"And how will you stop me, hm?" prompted the demon, turning to face her. "You are only a witch, a human, a mortal. You do not even possess a wand!"

"So odd of you to develop a fixation with wands," remarked Hermione, as the door slowly appeared behind him. "Was it really necessary? You had a perfectly good container in Draco."

The demon's eyes narrowed. "You forget that I know very well how to make you suffer, little witch. Why possess you now, unbroken? No, I will resume my residency in the princelet, of course," he said with a manic laugh, crimson eyes flashing red-black. "I will use the wand from inside his body, and I will destroy him slowly, bit by bit, until I own him, until his soul withers away to nothing, until his every thought is nothing but a screaming cry for death, and then, when I have ground what remains of him to rubble, and when nothing exists of him but pain—"

A little nudge from Hermione's thoughts, the flickering reminder of what was waiting for her when she escaped all this, was all it took for the door to crack, falling promisingly ajar.

Excellent. She'd had enough of speeches for the day.

"Goodbye, Voldemort," Hermione said, and shoved him with all her strength through the door on the seventh floor, slamming it shut as he fell.

When she opened her eyes, the weight of Draco's hand on her shoulder anchored her in place, securing her in this world; his world. She surfaced with a gasp, emerging from an unsurvivable depth, and braced herself against the door.

"I need you to hide it somewhere it can never be found," she whispered, palms resting on the wood with all the penitence of prayer.

For a moment, there was no answer; no sound.

Then the ring on her finger glinted, and like the vestiges of autumn over the reflection of an enchanted lake, the hinges of her mirror-world faded as if they had never been there at all.

* * *

_**a/n: **__For AnticipatingLight, mega700201, and jusuapi. Thank you to all of you for being here, my lovelies. _


	10. Well Begun is Half Done

**Chapter 10: Well Begun is Half Done**

Your grandmother's tale of Prince Draco's escape washes over you, alternately numbing and thrilling. You can almost hear the details, nearly see them: The courtiers fleeing, panicked. The raucous throng of angry commoners outside. Lady Vengeance herself, stark in the crowd with serenity, eyes trustfully closed. Prince Draco's steady hand on her shoulder, guiding each step, while she battled his demon inside her own mind.

Your grandmother describes the king and queen of her story as a pair of twin stars, a far-off glimmer, swimming upstream through the castle's molten chaos. They looked secure in their own little world, she tells you. Distant from the others, but as tranquil together as if they were one; as if they had never been parted.

"I found myself frozen for a moment," your grandmother admits, and it's the first time she references herself within the context of her story. True, she began by saying she was a witness to Lady Vengeance's defeat of the so-called curse (which you now realize wasn't a curse, strictly speaking, even if it definitely was), but it hasn't occurred to you to ask from which position she observed these events. Was she the wise professor? One of the handmaidens? Was she the noblewoman who helped spark the rebellion? Some sidelong courtier's daughter, perhaps?

Was she possibly even… Lady Vengeance herself?

You don't really think of your grandfather as princely, much less the sole heir to an ancient royal line, but perhaps it's something to consider. You do have quite a respected family name—constant fodder for the _Prophet_, given your father's political career—and after all, how else would your grandmother know? (Grandfather's portrait winks down at you over your grandmother's shoulder, and half a smile tugs at your mouth. Your grandmother was always the storyteller in the family, but Grandfather loved a good joke.)

You're about to give into your curiosity, opening your mouth to ask, when your grandmother cuts you off. "Don't rush me, petal," she says curtly. "After all, the story only begins with a demon; it does not end with one."

No, you interject without thinking, the story began with Lady Vengeance. The demon was always secondary; an obstacle, a villain, and perhaps, from time to time, a curse. Yes, there was a handsome prince, a court of secrets, and a spell to be broken by true love, so perhaps this has been a fairytale like most of the stories from your childhood.

But as to where this _particular_ story begins and ends, that has always been Lady Vengeance.

"Why, so it has, petal," says your grandmother after a moment, softening long enough to smile. "So it has."

* * *

_**The Fall of King Draco I, 1726  
**__Ministry of Magic, London, England  
Upon Occasion of The Rise_

When the door disappeared into the vacancy of the seventh floor, Hermione turned to Draco. For several moments, neither of them spoke, nor even moved. Outside the castle were shouts and cries, and Peeves, a talented anarchist, had contributed a series of small explosions to the ongoing distress—but here, on the seventh floor, there was nothing but contemplation; perhaps even the temporary paralysis of disbelief.

"Is it done, then?" asked Draco, with an unusual (and possibly so normal as to be un-kingly) degree of reticence.

Hermione took another moment to collect herself, taking stock of the situation. On the one hand, here was her husband whom she had not seen in months, looking once more like nothing she had ever seen from him previously. She had always presumed Draco's beauty to be, in part, the implication of some cosmetic extravagance; an eyeful of opulence (given, of course, the clothes, the deep silks, the rings glittering from his fingers, the crown he typically wore atop his golden curls). She had never known him without his privilege, only now he was half-starved and tormented; in their estrangement he had been left to waste away, locked inside the palace that his own doomed father had built. Stripped of even his base conceits, left with only the framework of what he'd been, Draco was wholly unrecognizable.

He was also the person she knew most fully, most unquestionably, in the entire world.

Hermione touched a finger gingerly to his cheek, which another person might have called slightly too-sharp, and slid away the grime of his hair, gruesomely too-long. "He's gone," she said, because he was. Voldemort was sealed in the walls of Hogwarts, trapped within the only magic he could not escape.

The black stone on her finger glinted again, confirmation that she was real, and Draco, too; as real as the castle they stood in. It was, as Draco had said, a matter of occlumency and legilimency both, true and false in equal doses; a duality of mind and matter.

This was real, and the door between realms was closed, and Voldemort was gone.

Some questions remained: how much of this had been Hermione herself—the resiliency that was her own—and how much had been the Hallow she only half-believed in? She supposed she might never know, but she was grateful all the same. What a lovely irony, she thought, that a boy cursed with a demon would give her the means to take possession of her own mind.

"Though," she remarked carefully, "even with him gone, I don't suppose that means it's done."

Draco took a step towards her, drawn in by the pulse of something divine, some inescapable tide. What a contrast they were: she in her ridiculous costumery of silks and furs, he in his bare prisoner's garb. She had half a mind to mock him for it, just to watch him scowl. It felt vaguely safer, less dangerous to her general well-being, to try and love him less, only she doubted it would work. His unpalatable tempers had failed to cheapen him before, and probably would again.

Having failed to kill him at his worst, Hermione doubted she could resist him now.

"Well," Draco said gruffly. "What do you plan to do about the revolt you've so recklessly brought to our door, my little spark of mutiny?"

"Nothing," said Hermione, and Draco blinked, taken aback by her answer. Perhaps he had expected her to link her arm in his and return them both home, fetching her good earrings and bathing in the leisure of being some half-hearted queen. "You didn't actually think you could regain your throne after this, did you? Draco," she scoffed, "you nearly subjected your kingdom to rule by demonic possession. I hardly think that qualifies you for political supremacy."

"I don't appreciate your tone," retorted Draco, though he seemed to recognize (however sullenly) that he was in no position to argue. "And what exactly did you think would happen if I were no longer king, my celestial flame?" he demanded. "People cannot simply rule themselves."

"I'm sure they can, given the proper means," replied Hermione indignantly. "Or do you really still think you ought to be in charge? You're running your kingdom into the ground, Draco," she reminded him, hoping he knew enough of his own treasury and courtiers to recognize as much, "and truly, you haven't the faintest idea what life is like for an ordinary witch or wizard."

"So now I'm being punished for my exceptionality? Tragic," said Draco with an exhausted sigh. "Unacceptable."

Hermione opened her mouth to remind him that his court, prejudiced by blood and by class and by an insurmountable devotion to their own wealth and stature, had rendered the monarchy nothing more than a tool for their own privilege. Would it be Minister against king forever, with the courtiers falling behind whichever party most stood to gain? It was a recipe for tyranny, for the natural demons belonging grossly to mankind, and in her frustration, Hermione's lips parted to inform him that she—with whatever claim she had to righteousness; or, at the very least, her intimate familiarity with being inconsequentially born—would never stand for it.

But rather than argue, Draco stepped closer, telling her with the immediacy of his presence and the conviction of his refuge that wherever she led, he would undoubtedly follow. His eyes, always alluring, were made exquisite for the certainty within them; for knowing he had withstood the pain of loneliness and treachery and her, and by now had chosen the latter without hesitation. His faith in her was regal, kingly, just as it was blind, stubbornly unbending. In response, Hermione stood a little straighter, feeling like a true queen at last; if not of magic, then of something; of everything.

"Well," said Draco, taking her face between his hands, "shall we end this, then?"

Among her own certainties, Hermione knew only that the next person who dared to harm him would meet the full venom of her wrath. Still, the situation merited some educated guesswork.

"Can we ever truly end it?" Hermione asked, glancing at the wall concealing her abandoned mirror-world; the empty realm where she had buried a demon. "It seems we'll live in doubt so long as we live."

For a moment, Draco didn't answer. Instead he glanced down, taking her hand in his, and gave the ring on her finger a little tug; perhaps out of security, or for comfort. It didn't budge, as always.

Then he slid the Elder Wand from where he'd tucked it into the waistband of his breeches, aiming it carefully at the ring.

"Maybe there will be some doubt from time to time," he acknowledged, "and, perhaps, someday you'll miss being able to summon the world you made. But is it better to own a piece of death," he asked quietly, locking eyes with her, "or to live?"

She smiled up at him, invulnerable and no longer alone, and briefly, there was a glimmer from her finger.

"This," she corrected him. "This is the world we made."

Then, and only then, did the ring finally come loose.

* * *

'The Fall' was a correct but unnecessarily theatrical name for everything that followed what eventually became known as the Battle of Hogwarts. Quite a small percentage of the magical population had actually been present, but in those days, without much for news and even less for literacy, stories spread far more quickly than facts. Rumor was a magic of its own, and before long the whole kingdom believed that Lord Voldemort, a noble beset with demonic ambitions, had been killed by a group of common rebels fighting the oppression of the wizarding beau monde. It was salacious enough that everyone, from aging witches in Yorkshire to social-climbing Warlocks in London, whispered that perhaps the king had no place in magical governance after all. Shouldn't some better, more reliable Ministry be enough?

Ultimately, the end of the world came with a great deal of tedium, though Draco supposed he shouldn't have been surprised; kinging had always been nothing but paperwork and tiresome quarrels with an excess of fancy new waistcoats (those being the only things he would miss). Once his missing courtiers had awoken from various states of slumber, mysteriously returned to their palace chambers—bemused, certainly, but otherwise unharmed—it was nothing but questions, questions, questions. Even amid the process of perilously falling, nothing much about the institution of kingship had changed. King Lucius' worst nightmare, the end of the monarchy, was somehow equally Draco's own: constant, unceasing annoyance.

"How can we possibly cede power to the Ministry?" demanded Crabbe, whose bulk had been returned with a slip of parchment bearing a beautifully scripted message: _From the revolution, with love. _"Surely they cannot be expected to serve this kingdom faithfully!"

(By 'faithfully' he of course meant as he had done, and his father before him. People, mind you, do not care for things being done differently than that which their imaginations, however limited, have the capacity to comprehend.)

Many courtiers shared Lord Crabbe's position. A still dazed Lord Parkinson, who would soon retire to his country estate to spend the rest of his days gazing with absent fondness at his sheep, managed to add, "Who would even be Minister?"

"Someone with a head for numbers, I expect," replied Draco, who still struggled fruitlessly to entertain the chatter of his soon-to-be former courtiers. "Though I'm sure my clever wife has someone quite appropriate in mind."

She almost certainly did, though Draco was mostly doing a thing she pretended to hate by putting all the troublesome bits of ruling into her masterly hands, thus skirting the laborious details. Truthfully, Draco's attention was elsewhere, what with the return of Theo (very much alive) and Harry (also alive, but more importantly, not a murderer). The extent of Draco's favor involved helpfully delivering their estates back to them, but he had recently discovered—to his _unfailing_ displeasure—that neither man wished to remove himself from his requisite state of death and disgrace.

"I have no intention to fill my father's seat in some defunct privy council that won't even exist," announced Theo stiffly, though when asked what sort of reward he preferred aside from extensive land ownership and generations of pureblooded wealth, he merely replied, "I'll stay dead, thanks."

"I suppose it's best if I die as well," remarked Harry, who had very specifically not been invited to speak. Draco opened his mouth to argue that Harry's death could be readily arranged if he wished it, but Hermione placed a cautioning hand on Draco's shoulder, prompting him to silence.

"I could easily have died in the Battle of Hogwarts," said Harry, "couldn't I?"

"It was hardly a battle," scoffed Theo. "More of a protest, really."

"Plus arson," said Harry.

"Only a bit," replied Theo.

"Yes, well, revolts aside," remarked Draco impatiently, ignoring yet another pulse from pacifying Hermione's hand, "you can't possibly think it's a good idea to let both your estates fall into some other courtier's hands."

"Never mind the estates," cut in Pansy, who gave both Theo and Harry a lethally narrow-eyed glare. "You both have a right to a seat in the Ministry by inheritance. Would you give that to someone like my father instead, or to hers?" she demanded, gesturing with a flutter of her hand to where Daphne sat in restrained (but unquestionable) disapproval. "You have a duty to serve whatever this wretched kingdom becomes!" Pansy chided them, and then, remembering herself, she adjusted the silk of her lilac gown, burying her distress in the necessity of decorum.

"Marvelous," Theo muttered with a sigh, collapsing into the chair beside Draco. It had taken some time to fall into their old rhythms—twenty minutes or so—but by now, it was as if they had never been parted since their golden age of boyhood. Here, at last, was the Theo that Draco remembered, full of contrariness and surly mischief. Helpfully, neither of them had any remaining demons on their backs; unhelpfully, they were no longer discussing petty matters of evading afternoon lessons.

"So I should resurrect from my grave and marry some noblewoman, then?" demanded Theo. "Spend my life having sons and hoping they're not demon-summoners, or at least something shy of totally daft? Wonderful," Theo concluded, adding stubbornly, "What are you doing later?" to a rather taken aback Astoria, who proceeded to scowl.

"The Nott name is irreplaceable," Daphne said quickly, interrupting the altercation before her sister could speak. "As is the Potter name. You cannot simply disappear."

Theo and Harry exchanged a glance that Draco, however regrettably, had come to interpret, and worse, to wholly understand. It was the shared longing for a taste of impermissible wildness; a forbiddenness with aftershocks of impossibility. He had both felt it himself and witnessed it in others because it had been his own, belonging now to his only friend: the utter criminality of devotion.

Draco wished it were easier to make demands of them, as he could of the rest of his courtiers, but that would require knowing less. Draco had been there when Harry, recently freed, had been pacing the floor of their cell, still possessing only the knowledge distributed to him by Lord Voldemort that Theo had died months before. When Theo himself walked in the door, battered and split-lipped but no worse for wear in the wake of Draco's botched execution, Harry had risen to his feet, fists clenched, and looked for a moment as if he would happily bring the altercation to blows.

In the end, he did not. Not conventionally, anyway. He had merely stared at Theo, willing his eyes to adjust, and said finally: "If you had died, it wouldn't have mattered. I would have brought you back myself," at which point Theo had cast aside whatever differences remained and pulled Harry into his arms, muttering something incoherent about forgiveness.

Draco and Hermione, enduringly royal, had politely turned away. Daphne and Pansy, faultless in their breeding, had done little more than lock eyes, discreetly understanding. It was then that Draco had come to understand how the savagery of unbridled affection was for luckier men, or at least for freer ones.

Which was positively demonic, and thus, as a rule, could no longer stand.

"Fine," said Draco, rising sharply to his feet. "Lord Potter and Lord Nott perished in the conflicts surrounding the fall of this monarchy. In the wake of my abdication, their lands and titles will fall to their next of kin."

"We have no next of kin," said Harry, bewildered, but Draco held up a hand, exhausted by the unremitting torment that was the necessity of benevolent kingship.

"Your wives," Draco clarified, gesturing to the blinking set of Pansy and Daphne, sitting as erect as their bloodlines required of their spines. "I don't care which is which. The marriages were secret, obviously," he added with a diffident flutter of his fingers in their respective directions, "but, in the absence of a king at the time, those unions are retroactively approved. The edicts will be provided alongside the distribution of this palace to the Ministry for public use. Is there any opposition?" he demanded, turning expectantly to rebellious Hermione, who would surely have something to say.

"You do realize women cannot inherit," commented predictable Hermione.

"Widows can," Draco said defensively.

"Mm," replied Hermione, "though, does that really seem fair?"

She was giving him a placid sort of expression that he had since learned to consider especially dangerous.

"Fine," said Draco disinterestedly, "add that to the pile of edicts as well."

Her smile broadened, approving, and his chest gave an unhelpful lurch.

It was woefully, completely barbaric how beholden he was to her smile.

"And for Minister?" prompted Hermione. "I suppose they ought to vote."

"Which 'they'?" demanded Draco. "The mob?"

"The mob," Hermione confirmed, "otherwise known as your people."

"Even for you that's madness," said Draco to his clearly unstable wife, and she rose to her feet, giving a little shrug that meant she would likely get her way.

"Well, let's give them a try, shall we?" she said. "Though, if we could agree in this room on a viable candidate, I think we ought to try."

She gave a slow sweep of her head, observing her options.

"Dead," remarked Theo and Harry in unison.

"Inconveniently female," added Pansy, as Daphne said, "Not very good with public speaking, if we're being candid."

"Disgraced former king," contributed Draco, though he knew he was not strictly being asked.

Hermione's smile twitched faintly, and then she turned to Ron and Neville.

"Well, I suppose I could run," said Neville thoughtfully, though he paused to glance at Ron. "Unless you'd like to?"

"You've already got a voice with them," said Ron, adding with a bit of a lopsided grin, "and besides, I'm not sure the courtiers are ready for a Minister completely lacking any sort of fortune."

"You can have mine," said Astoria unthinkingly, prompting every head in the room to turn to her. She sat half-forgotten beside her sister, her cheeks immediately turning a shade of pink that matched her delicately embroidered gown. "That is," she amended, clearing her throat, "if we're in the business of bargaining for this kingdom's future, then I suppose I have a duty to offer what I can, do I not? Maybe to the rest of you I'm nothing more than my gowns and my looks," she commented hotly, "but someone will have to take on the apparent _lesser_ responsibility of marriage and children." She paused, threatening them all to argue with a slow, revolving glance. "After all, how will any of this prevail if no one in this room has heirs?"

"That's true," said secretive Hermione, with her covert little smile. She, in Draco's opinion, had gotten very mysterious since becoming an erstwhile queen; having the monarchy removed from her shoulders had driven her to a fashionable air of intrigue, which Draco did his best not to blatantly admire. "Only if you want to," she added to Ron, who had not dropped his freckled gaze from Astoria since she'd first opened her mouth.

"I suppose I can make arrangements," said Ron, "though I hope you'll agree to my terms."

At that, Astoria looked up, primly approaching outrage.

"Your terms?" she echoed stiffly. "Am I not the one with the money?"

"Yes, but I will have to make my own demands." Ron rose sharply to his feet, approaching her, and hesitated only long enough to crouch down beside her voluminous skirts, pausing a moment to look her in the eye.

"I will not marry you for money," he said, as Astoria blinked with surprise, "because there isn't a price in the world for you that comes in the form of gold coins. I will marry you, yes, but on a variety of conditions: that you will know me, first," he said, startling the remainder of the room. "That you will have weighed my value in something more than duty and responsibility; that I will have worth to you, and you to me, beyond matters of vaults or blood. I will not marry you unless you can stomach having the entirety of my heart, which will belong to you eternally, or better yet, until you have asked for it. I will not marry you unless you can love me," he finished quietly. "Not until you can see your future when you look at me, and it looks like something you can stand."

"Oh." For a moment there was silence, and then Astoria swallowed heavily, loud enough to be heard even throughout the high-ceilinged grandeur of Draco's rooms. "Yes, well. Perhaps as soon as possible, then," she said brusquely, and thoughtful Hermione, sparing the girl the indecency of overwhelming them with her emotions, turned to the others.

"Well," she said, "if that's all settled—"

"But where will you go?" asked Pansy, turning a hard glance of scrutiny between the two defrocked royals.

At that, Hermione and Draco exchanged a glance, smiling a new and secret smile. In his mind, she kissed his cheek, and he stroked her hair. Every door was open, light streaming from all directions. In the Hogwarts they had made, the sun had a tendency to shine.

"Well, the world is a very big place," said practical Hermione. "I would so hate for us to miss it."

The ring she wore on her finger was duller now than previous trinkets. Just a gold wedding band with no powers to speak of, but Draco had come to prefer the way it shone in the light. He had given it to her beside the enchanted lake that had been his mother's, savoring the view for one last glance. The memories there were tired now, overused, symbolic of lonelier lifetimes. He had no plans to return.

It was no one's business where he went anymore. If that was unearned or soon to collapse, he wouldn't waste a moment questioning it.

"Now get out of my palace," said Draco conclusively, waking them all from their respective trances and ushering them out the door. "If we stay a moment longer, I may burn the whole place to the ground."

* * *

Hermione watched the newly minted Minister Longbottom sign Draco's abdication into law with a mix of sadness and relief. True, her husband had been a disastrous king, and more importantly, kings in general had such a long history of disaster, but abandoning his birthright was never going to be as easy as he made it look. Still, better to leave things in the hands of someone else. There were other things to be done in the meantime.

She and the newly-demoted Prince Draco (a conciliatory title, given mostly as a token of appreciation for his voluntary exile) would be leaving the kingdom—the country, that is—to go… somewhere. They hadn't quite decided where, though at least no demons would have anything to say about it either. Hermione had already parted tearfully with Professor McGonagall, promising that she would be back soon, though she wasn't sure how true that would be. Yes, one day she felt quite certain she would return to Hogwarts, but she didn't want anyone to wait. She hugged Ginny in farewell, declining yet another escapade on brooms, and blew a kiss to Peeves (ducking what she was relieved to discover was merely a benign shower of garden snails) before heading down to the once-familiar rooms below the lake, finding the person she'd felt it most pressing to speak with.

"Lady Astoria," Hermione said, knocking quietly on the open frame, and Astoria turned, looking up from an owl and hastily smothering an overbroad smile. Romance, it seemed, persisted; in the days leading up to the Greengrass-Weasley wedding, Astoria had been packing her things from the castle and arranging the home they would eventually fill, but Ron, who was away helping Neville and Ginny at the Ministry, was clearly not too busy to write.

"Your Majesty," said Astoria, acknowledging her with a curtsey, and Hermione smiled.

"Not anymore," she said. "I'll need another title. Former alchemy assistant," she suggested, motioning within the castle walls, though it was hard to believe she had ever been that. Harder still to believe she had once coveted Astoria's position so dearly; now the world was open for her, waiting, and however wide it would turn out to be, it was still beyond her fondest imaginings.

"Dull," ruled Astoria, who was young and beautiful, and easily bored. "Something more exciting, at least."

"Lady Malfoy, then?" asked Hermione.

"Lady Vengeance," replied Astoria teasingly. "The woman who turned a kingdom upside down."

Hermione stepped inside the room with a smile, closing the door in her wake, and beckoned for Astoria to sit beside her. They had grown comfortable with each other after so many months, and by now it was hardly monumental for them to have a little chat.

"Tea?" asked Astoria.

"Please," said Hermione. "A bit of lemon, if you have it."

Astoria flicked her wand, stirring in a few drops, and levitated the cup to Hermione, taking a moment to settle her ample skirts beneath her. By then, Hermione had taken to wearing the simple riding dress that she preferred, foregoing most of her queenly accessories. Astoria was dressed precisely like the courtier's daughter that she was, outfitted in cerulean silk that matched her intended's eyes. Styles were changing, as they had a tendency to do, and this time, influence came from the wizarding court of Versailles; Astoria looked thoroughly unable to breathe, but cheerfully so.

"I do hope we'll see each other again," she remarked, pouring a bit of sugar into her own cup of tea. "I'm ever so devastated not to have you at the wedding."

"Oh, I think I'd be a bit of a distraction," said Hermione, chuckling a little as she sipped her tea, testing its warmth. "It's probably best, anyway, if Draco and I disappear as soon as possible. Eventually people will forget we ever existed and move forward."

"I won't," said Astoria staunchly, and Hermione arched a brow. "Fine, forward, maybe," Astoria conceded with a sigh, "but never so far that I forget, and neither will any of my children. Nor will any of theirs," she added, impassioned by the thought.

"Oh, I don't know about that. People often tire of the same stories," Hermione demurred, "and was any of it really so interesting?"

They shared a glance over their teacups, dissolving into quiet laughter.

"Maybe a bit," acknowledged Hermione with a sigh. "But I certainly do not envy your children having to hear about the silly mess we made together."

They each sat in comfortable silence for a moment, steeping their respective thoughts as they sipped their tea. Briefly, Astoria's smile faded in contemplation, and by the time her lips parted, Hermione already knew what she would ask.

"There is, actually, one question I had," Astoria admitted, as Hermione reached for the chain she now wore around her neck, toying with it. "My sister told me about the Hallows," Astoria began, and Hermione nodded permission to continue, having expected someone to bring them up by now. Harry had been part of the decision, of course, and Theo, and Daphne and Pansy and Ron and Neville, but telling Astoria would be the first time she would reveal it to someone who had not been tasked in some way with protecting the Hallows themselves.

"Well, were they—?" Astoria attempted. "Did they, ah—"

"We thought it best to split them," Hermione said.

After a pause, she added, "We also thought it best not to find out whether the stories about them were true."

"What?" asked Astoria, going slightly pale. "You… you didn't even try?"

"No." Hermione stifled a laugh at the expression of dismay on Astoria's lovely face. "One thing I learned from all this is that some things are better not to know. Hard to keep secrets," she explained, having had enough of locked rooms in castles, guarded mind-vaults. They never discovered, after all, what Dumbledore's true intentions had been; perhaps one day the Hallows could be well used by someone, but was it worth the risk? Power, even well-intended, had such a tendency to corrupt, or to be corrupted. "Harder still to keep secrets when they're dangerous."

Astoria blinked, utterly astounded. "But—"

"We're taking the wand," Hermione assured her. "Harry will take the cloak wherever he and Theo happen to go, so everything will be nicely situated at a distance." She smiled a little into nothing at the thought. "For what it's worth, I imagine everything will look quite different the next time Draco and I return. Pansy and Daphne will have constructed a new magical government by then with Neville," she remarked to herself, "so that's certainly something—"

"But the third Hallow," persisted Astoria, glancing up at Hermione with concern, as if she might have irresponsibly miscounted. "Where will the stone be?"

That was a question Hermione only intended to answer a single time. The trouble with moving forward, as Hermione knew by then, was that it was preferable not to be beholden to the past, and therefore some things must be discarded.

Sometimes, to take a step onward, prior burdens would have to go.

"About that," said Hermione Granger, a girl who had once been nothing, and then a captive, and then a queen; a girl who was now a woman joyously unchained, and whose future remained untold. "I wondered if I might ask you a favor."

* * *

Your grandmother finishes her tea and sits back for a moment, observing you in silence. Then she rises to her feet unsteadily, and though you motion to assist her, she waves you impatiently away.

"Wait there, petal," she says, and meanders slowly out of the room as you stare down at your teacup, frowning.

You suppose you do know the rest of the story, assuming any of it was even true. Prince Draco never made an official return to England, or so the history books say. He is presumed dead by now, and you know nothing of his consort, whose low birth and troubled reign (less than a year!) wasn't even a footnote in wizarding history. Minister Longbottom, one of your father's esteemed predecessors, is of course widely known and celebrated, as are Lady Nott and Lady Potter, who are now considered the founders of the modern Ministry. Neither remarried after being widowed, though that's all you know aside from the particulars of their once-radical policies; your books say that after long and illustrious careers, both stepped down from public service and retired, tragically unwed, to their country estate, where they lived as fond companions.

One of them is, of course, your grandaunt, who was very helpful to your father's run for Minister. In fact, if not for her support, you doubt Papa would have begun his pursuit of politics to begin with, though your grandmother's story suggests that maybe it was no accident that Papa married Mama, or that he eventually began working in the Ministry, or even that you accepted your new position in the office of a prominent Warlock. Perhaps all of this has always been part of your grandmother's design; Papa being the youngest, she must have tried with your elder uncles as well, only to wind up with her hopes pinned on him, and therefore also on you.

Your grandmother always seemed very strange to you, amusingly so, and so very uppity to Mama. You always knew it was because Grandmother came from a different time—from the dazzle of the monarchical age, so full of glamor and excess compared to the grime of modern commerce and industry—but perhaps there's more to it than that.

"Here we are," says your grandmother, interrupting your thoughts. She returns to her chair with cumbersome grace, gritting her teeth a bit from the creaking of her aging bones, and slides a small box across the table to you. "For you, petal."

Your birthday isn't for months. You open your mouth to argue, but your grandmother shakes her head.

"It's time," she says simply, gesturing for you to open the box, and though you frown, still uncertain, you reach for it with hesitant fingers, carefully lifting the lid.

In the box, nestled against velvet so green it nearly looks black, is a ring. A black diamond is set between what looks like the fangs of a snake on either side, and it glints in the light; either the stone is stupendously cut, or, as you frivolously suspect, it gleams a little with portent.

"I had only sons, as you know," says your grandmother, while you stare down at the ring, slightly transfixed. "Dozens of them, I sometimes suspect; enough to trip over, in the end. But there is one thing I haven't told you yet about Lady Vengeance."

"Who was she?" you ask, forcing your gaze away from the ring. Perhaps it's the wrong thing to ask given what's been placed in front of you, but your grandmother gives a little laugh.

"Oh, petal," she says, wistful with approval, "that _is_ the question, isn't it? For we are all Lady Vengeance, my darling; we of our kind, with our little magics. Every woman is herself a piece of Lady Vengeance—or rather," she amends, leaning conspiratorially towards you, "we become her, whenever someone threatens us and ours."

Ah, you think, both touched and slightly deflated. So it's a parable, then, just as you initially suspected. Lady Vengeance and the curse are probably just some silly things your grandmother invented to convince you to stay another hour (or three) to tea, imparting a little wisdom in the form of secrets and whimsy. Perhaps this ring, too, is nothing more than that: a ring, however strangely inviting.

But before you can ask, a throat clears by the door and you look up, startled by an unexpected presence.

"Lady Weasley," says the stranger, calling your grandmother by her now very antiquated title. You haven't heard that in some time, of course; Papa only calls her Mama, and Mama calls her by her name—Astoria; or, to Papa, 'your insufferable mother'—whenever your grandmother isn't there to hear it. Mama is the first lady of the wizarding world, the wife of Minister Weasley and an heiress in her own right, but even she would not accept so stuffy a title as 'Lady Weasley.' Not so for Grandmother, who rarely goes out anymore, preferring to tend to her stories and houseplants in solitude, but every now and then someone slips and calls her by her former name, and you can see in her eyes the person she once was: the jewel of a lost magical court, left to fade against the industrialization of modernity.

"Ah, excellent, right on schedule. Come in," says your grandmother, beckoning to the young man—strange and half-familiar—who stoops slightly in the door frame, bending his head to pass through the low arch of your grandmother's old house. "I'm so pleased you were able to come on such short notice. I've told you about my granddaughter, haven't I?" asks your grandmother, and the young man nods politely, turning in your direction. "Petal, this is Caelum," your grandmother supplies, glancing askance as you fumble the box in your hands, suddenly fearing you might swallow your tongue. "A family friend, one might say."

"Miss Rose," says Caelum, turning to you and bowing his gleaming head, which is adorned with loose golden curls. When his eyes meet yours—deep and brown like a perfect cut of amber, his skin bronzed by tendrils of faraway sun—you feel a little flutter of wings inside your chest, and for a moment, you know madness as surely as you know your own name; some distant future, however improbable, has just taken flight.

You become hideously ungainly, the ring tumbling loose from the box to land in your palm, and when Caelum reaches for your hand, you realize belatedly they're already full; one with the box, one with the ring. In an episode of awkwardness never to be surpassed, you hastily slip the ring onto your finger, tossing the box aside and placing your hand hurriedly in his. It would be rude, after all, to make him wait.

"A pleasure to meet you," says Caelum, who is so golden and regal you half expect to go blind from the sight of him, and then he raises your hand to his lips.

He kisses your hand, and you—_you_, Rose Weasley, daughter of the Minister for Magic, youngest legal clerk in over a century and the first woman to hold the post (yes, _you_, with all your modern ideas and your boundless maturity and your singular refusal to go weak-kneed at the sight of a handsome man!)—blurt out something so foolish you think you may simply shrivel up and die.

Would he like some tea?

Caelum smiles so beautifully your stomach contorts with anguish. "I'd love some," he says, and though you've been drinking tea for the entire day and have every intention to return home before dark, he turns to procure another chair, rendering that impossible. Meanwhile, you resume your seat, mumbling something about how pleased you are while your grandmother stifles a laugh.

You glare at her, and she shrugs, haughtily amused. _Understandable_, she mouths, and regrettably, you turn to look at him again, just to see; just to look. From the side profile, you realize with a jolt where you've seen Caelum before, and you blink—Could it be?

Caelum, whoever he is, looks precisely like the portrait of Prince Draco.

Before you can say anything, however, Caelum is on his way back with a chair, so you direct your attention elsewhere; to the ring on your finger, specifically, realizing you've forgotten it entirely in your haste to impersonate refinement. You give it a tug in displeasure, finding it wildly ostentatious and not at all to your taste, but the obvious immediately becomes clear.

It's stuck.

"What an interesting ring," remarks Caelum, placing his seat beside yours and startling you with his proximity. He smells of cedar on an autumn breeze, the longing quietude of a secret kiss, the fantasy of a midnight whisper. The bloom of what's to come (maybe, possibly!) settles between you, as crisp as the smile on his face. "I don't suppose there's a story to it, is there?"

You open your mouth to protest something only half-formed in your mind—_Let me be clear, I do not believe in curses or Hallows, and certainly not in soulmates!_—but it's no use.

Before you can say a word, your grandmother laughs and laughs and laughs.

* * *

"Do you think he'll stay gone?" asked the prince of Lady Vengeance, turning to her beneath the flicker of a single candle's flame. Later they would remember this evening for the wine, the food and conversation; the lovemaking beside the window, just to be closer to open sky. They would not remember whether they were in Spain when it happened, or in France or in Mongolia, or somewhere lost to any pre-existing map. They would remember only the way their bodies were lit by the single flickering candle, and the whispers that slid from sated lips.

"Will we be besieged by a demon forever?"

"Maybe; maybe not," said Lady Vengeance. "He was a very clever demon; surely someone will seek him out." (Greed never dies, after all, and neither do demons. To expect otherwise is to live with one's eyes closed.) "It will be someone else's job, then."

The prince called his wife something silly ('painted starlight' or 'pearl of daybreak'—not because they remained who they had once been, but because by now it made her laugh) and pulled her closer, still growing accustomed to the luxury of nearness.

(Never forget the splendor of loving, and the gift of being loved. Savor it, sip it, let it dance on your tongue, delicate and sweet. It can be gone from your grasp in an instant, so do not be the fool with careless fingers. Treasure always what you hold in your hands.)

Lady Vengeance drew her prince's palm down to the span of her belly, where very soon a new heartbeat would be felt. The prince would choose a name of starlight, like his mother's and like his own, and Lady Vengeance would readily agree. Their children would not be princes or kings but beloved by mother and father, free to wander, to laugh or to cry, even to scream if need be. Free, with the wide world and all its reflections before them. Free, with only the ghosts of ancient history to keep them vigilant in the night.

"I suppose we should sleep," said the prince. He had already spent hours that day studying the curves of her; once with his brush, twice with his hands. His body, tragically mortal, was suffering tiny, ordinary deaths: the numbness of exhaustion.

Lady Vengeance didn't mind. She had her own exhaustion—joyfulness—and was spent, overfull, bursting with it. She would fall asleep thinking of celestial things; of star names, the mythologies of foregone worlds. She who had been nothing (who now had everything) was full of things to come, swollen with possibility. With magic she would teach to strangers. With stories she would use to arm her children. With diligence, with quietude, because for the rest of her life, she would look into every mirror and know the danger hidden on the other side.

Perhaps the demon was with her now. Perhaps he had come here, to the reflection of this very spot, traveling her mirror-world to come and sit beside her. Perhaps at this very moment, he stared into vacant shadows of nothing while she lay in her prince's arms, warmed beneath the vastness of the stars. At the thought, Lady Vengeance cracked one eye and smiled into darkness, daring him with her certainty: _Cross me and see what a storm I truly am._

She waited, but there was no response. Gradually, she let out a breath.

"Sleep, then," she agreed, letting her prince pull her closer. He had his habits, as she had hers, and he curled up to breathe in the smell of her curls. He was to her as she was to him, each like mirrored pieces of the other.

"My love," said the prince to Lady Vengeance, as she said back to him: "My love."

Then Lady Vengeance closed her eyes and slept, peacefully at rest.

* * *

_**FIN**_

* * *

_**a/n: **__For aurorarsinistra, with love. To those of you who followed me through this world, either willingly or not, I am grateful. It was the story I wanted to tell._

_For my books and original work, find me at olivieblake dot com, where my new fantasy series will be available come December. The playlist for this fic is now available on Spotify, where I am olivieblake. If you enjoy a fic, a reminder: please consider reviewing and recommending to friends/groups/blogs, both for my own stories and any others you enjoy. Next for me will be my 2019 advent, posting December 1-25 in my __**Amortentia**_ _story collection, and the remaining epilogical diaries in __**Modern Romance**__. _

_It has been an honor to put the words down for you; as always, I sincerely hope you've enjoyed the story._

_xx, Olivie_


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